First Person (6 page)

“We’re
nearly there.” My wife looks both ways before dragging us across the road.
There is no traffic. Up ahead, the smog is much thicker. An old man with a
walking frame walks on the other side of the road, but is going in the same
direction as us. He is making slow progress and we leave him quickly behind. I
begin to worry that we are wasting our time. We have seen many police cars and
did not attempt to slow one down or stop it. We should have done that.

There
are no buildings now. The sidewalk we are on borders a very wide road, with
multiple lanes. No traffic in either direction disturbs the surface. Ahead, the
smog has become much thicker but I can see support columns with cables running
down in parallel lines to reach a road. “Is this the bridge?” I ask.

My
wife nods urgently and grips my hand tighter. We slow our pace and walk towards
the structure. Our son lifts his head and indicates he wants down by making his
body rigid. I let him slide to the ground and his slippers touch the sidewalk.
I move him between my wife and me. We hold a hand each. As we near the bridge,
I can make out the support columns rise into the smog in a giant ‘H’ shape.
Thick cables support the road but below that, where I would expect to see what
the bridge is crossing, like a river or the sea, there is only more smog.
Swirling around, it is all around us now. We cannot see the other side of the
bridge. All sound is muffled but there are people here.

An
older man, thin and dressed in slacks and a polo shirt leans against a chain
link fence. He looks at us with a puzzled expression. A young couple rush up
behind us, clutching hands, and run panicked onto the bridge and into the smog.
Very quickly, they disappear from view. I am unsure about us going any further.
I stop and ask my wife, “Why this way?”

Her
eyes twitch about. Her free hand goes up to her mouth and she taps fingers on
her chin, thinking about the answer. “It seemed the right thing to do.” She
looks up and sees the old man with the walking frame. He is nearly on the
bridge now and begins to fade in amongst the grey fog as he steps carefully
forward, lifting the frame, placing it in front of him, taking a step, and
lifting the frame again. “See, he’s going that way,” says my wife. “We should
go this way.”

I’m
still not sure. Our son is becoming anxious. We are at the threshold of the
bridge. I look behind us and see more people coming towards us. Some are
shuffling, where others are more determined. None take any notice of us. The
older man in slacks and polo shirt is the only one interested in us. He shakes
his head slowly at me. I turn to look back at the bridge. I hold my hand out
and it seems to be swallowed by the fog, obscured from view. My wife looks
puzzled. My hand feels cold and I pull it back. It returns to view but it seems
flatter somehow, like the shadows have been rubbed out. There’s very little
light because of the smog but my wife and our son seem rounded while my hand
looks bland. I put it in my pocket, take a deep breath, and feel sensation
returning to my hand. I pull it back out and look at it again. It seems fine,
normal, like before. Our son releases himself from our hands and goes to step
forward.

“I
wouldn’t let him do that.” The older man in slacks and polo shirt has stepped
forward. I place hands on the boy’s shoulders and steer him back to his mother.

“Why
should I not let him do that?” I ask the man. He has come right up to us. I see
that his face is deeply lined and weathered. He is wearing a white golfing cap,
square on his head. I had not noticed that before. In reply to my question, he
makes a backward nod to indicate we should look at the bridge, which we do.

The
young couple who had made to flee over the bridge were now returning, though
they are walking slower. Their hands are still together but there is less
urgency. They hold hands in a more relaxed manner and they are no longer
running, but walking more normally. Returning from the bridge and not running
away to cross it, their expressions are glassy, removed from their thinking and
they seem flat, their movements mechanical almost. As they pass us they smile
and the young man says, “Good morning, neighbour.”

Without
us returning the greeting, the couple move on, back towards the city. I turn to
the older man in the cap and say to him, “What just happened?”

He
looks at me for a moment, with that same quizzical look. He says, “How did it
happen for you? Did you do something different?” His tone is casual as if I
should understand what he is talking about. My expression must give away that I
have no idea what he means. He scratches his chin. “What did you do today?”

I
look to my wife. She is as stunned as I am. I tell the man about driving out
our street, the intersection, the gun battle, the windshield breaking and
reforming, going back to the intersection and seeing the same scene but with
different people, then returning home. With a hand, he stops me speaking, “You
went home? To your family?”

“My
wife and our son,” I tell him. I have our son by the shoulders, held in front
of me. My wife stands closer to me. “Why are you asking me this?”

Instead
of answering my question, the man asks me, “What did you do yesterday?”

I
start to answer but no words come out. I look to my wife. She puts her mouth
into a downturned smile and shakes her head. She cannot remember either. I say
to the man, “Who are you?”

“I’m
just a guy that’s been looking at this bridge for a while,” he says and moves
to get a better view. From through the fog, a figure is starting to emerge and
we hear a metallic click followed by a few shuffles. As we listen, the man in
the polo shirt tells us about his morning, how he was in his yard, mowing his
lawn, when all of a sudden a truck smashed through his house and jack-knifed on
his lawn. A black SUV and a red sports car crashed through his fence and the
occupants were shooting at each other. He could see his wife in the kitchen get
blown back as bullets blasted the window. Somehow he managed to avoid the
bullets and make his way inside. He found his wife on the floor in a pool of
blood. Already the sound of shots was fading. His wife’s eyes looked into the
distance and she didn’t seem concerned in anyway, perhaps even peaceful, but
just before she died, she looked at him. Alarm appeared across her face and she
cried out to him before she rattled and passed away.

He
had held her hand for a while. When he stood up, he looked outside, through an
unbroken pane of glass to find his yard was whole. There was no damage, no
truck, no SUV or sports car. Everything in his yard was just as it was earlier.
He ran outside because he could not believe what he was seeing. His mower lay
gently idling on the lawn. When he reached it, it moved slightly and some tufts
of grass flew out behind it. Movement in the corner of his eye, from the
direction of his kitchen, forced him back inside only to find something even
stranger.

“What
was it, sir?” my wife asks. She is enthralled by the man’s story.

“It
was my wife,” says the man, “up and about as if nothing had happened. She
wasn’t hurt or injured, and her eyes were flat and colorless. She looked at me
and smiled.”

“What
did you do next?” I shuffle on my feet.

“I
came here,” says the man, laughing, and flipping his hands out to indicate the
bridge. “Some uncontrollable panic led me here.”

“To
the bridge,” my wife says, wistful, like she was remembering her reason for
making us come here.

“That’s
right, the bridge,” says the man. “See, I did something different today, and
other folks are the same. Look at this guy.” He indicates out at the bridge,
towards the clicking and shuffling sound. It is the old man with the walking
frame who had crossed earlier. He is returning, even slower than before,
emerging from the smog but still distant. He lifts the frame, places it in
front, then takes two shuffles to catch up, and then lifts the frame again. The
man in the cap says, “He’s done something different today, and for some reason,
he couldn’t help himself but come here.”

We
watch the old man come closer. The colours of his clothes appear out the smog,
but pale and flat, like a bad drawing. I swallow. “What does this all mean?”

“I
can’t tell you that,” says the man, “but think back to the people you saw at
the intersection. It was like they weren’t taking it seriously. Am I right?”

“Like
a game?”

“All
I can tell you is what I see,” says the man. “It was like it didn’t mean
nothin’ to them and we don’t mean nothin’ to them. Half the people I seen today
look the same, just staring into space. Then something happens and they come
here.”

“That’s
right, that’s right,” says my wife. Her demeanour is anxious, like she is on
the verge of grasping the point. “We come here to be refreshed. To come back
new and ready.”

“What
are you talking about?” I’m yelling at her and grab her arms as she flails
about. Our son moves away, scared, and the old man in the cap keeps a hold of
him in case he runs off onto the bridge. I am still yelling. “How did you know
to bring us here?”

“We’ve
got no choice!” my wife shouts. She is crying. Tears stream down her face. “We
can go back there with all our memories and try and survive or we go out there
and be refreshed.”

I
relax. Back there, in town, at our home, we would have cars crashing into our
yard and people shooting police officers, but here we would forget. All we
would have to do is cross that bridge. Like the young couple who ran across so
frantically but returned so calmly, we could do the same. “Could that be
right?” I ask the man in the cap and slacks and polo shirt.

“I
think your wife is right,” he says to me. We see from the direction of the
town, the old lady from the porch rocking chair. She is bent over and can
hardly walk, but she is trotting towards the bridge and the smog.

The
old man with the walking frame keeps coming closer. He is the figure we have
seen and heard approaching, but much nearer now. He lifts the frame, places it
in front of him, takes two shuffles to catch up, and then lifts the frame
again. He looks towards us, almost through us, as if his eyes are not quite
focused. His features are flat and unresponsive but he looks like he could be
the brother of the man we have just been talking to, and who is still right
next to me, and is wearing a cap, slacks and a polo shirt. The old man with the
walking frame smiles.

He
says, “Good morning, neighbour.”

W
e watch the
video on a
large screen. There is no sound and the image flickers in the darkened lecture
room. No-one speaks. I want to take in every detail. At first, all we can see
is the control panel of the aircraft. Blue gridded panels sit either side of
what looks like a map screen. Funnily, I notice the symmetry of it. The camera
is attached to the pilot’s shoulder and it bobs the image around. We only have
a brief sight of the heads-up display and the horizon beyond as it flips from
level to angled as the pilot moves the stick and his Typhoon fighter responds.
A light begins to flash on a sharp-cornered square button and, a heartbeat
later, the pilot has made a decision and ejected. A flurry of soundless energy
escapes and the scene blurs as the pilot is wrenched from his position.

There
is a weightless pause before the horizon comes into view on this massive screen
and it’s clear the pilot is now out of the aircraft and in the air. We catch a
glimpse of the fighter jet falling away, spinning a coiled exhaust as it falls
towards the old shopping centre. There is a jerk and we see the sky but then we
see the pilot’s body and the ground below. His slow pace of falling means the
parachute has deployed. Clad in a green flight suit, his body is lean and we
catch sight of his helmeted head as he himself glimpses the ground. He’s
heading for an open area of grass dotted with a few clumps of trees. The grass
must be long because it sways in a breeze and waves of movement pass across the
whole area.

I
lean in closer, forearms on the bench in front of me, and peer into the screen.
Waves of grass seem to part and create a massive pattern forming a ‘D’ shape
before it moves again. There is a small tut behind me. I think the person who
made it has realised that what he is seeing on the screen is not grass, but
human bodies. As the parachuting pilot nears the swaying mass of people, we see
he is trying to make manoeuvres to avoid them. He tugs on the parachute and his
target position moves, but the swarm on the ground moves to meet him. We begin
to see ravaged faces, ragged clothes, and outstretched arms.

The
pilot is panicking on screen. His legs are kicking as if he’s trying to run
away but he continues to fall. In the room, we’re becoming uneasy. We know
what’s going to happen. He is near the ground now and we can make out hundreds
of faces, red greedy eyes, rotting teeth biting the air in anticipation. There
is a glimpse of the shopping centre in flames because the abandoned Typhoon has
crashed into it. And in the last few moments of the pilot’s life, grasping bony
fingers reach out for him as he drops helplessly into their midst.

Mercifully,
the screen fades and the lights come up. Jerry, our host and trainer, steps
forward into the centre of the now-white screen. Unlike the other people who
work here, he’s not wearing black army-style clothes and a square skip cap. He
wears chinos and a green logoed polo shirt. All morning, his smile has been
wide and his teeth are bright white, but now his face is serious.

“Welcome,”
says Jerry. “To Zombie Park.”

In
the truck, we’re all a bit quiet though there’s a lot of engine noise and we
sit in two rows facing each other. Canvas panels keep the view hidden. We were
told to bring our own boots. I’m wearing comfy hiking shoes I got from the
internet. The rest of our outfits are mock-ups of military uniforms. Only a
huge American calling himself Gus is fully done up in his own gear. He wears a
wide brimmed army hat which is pinned up on one side. He chews something behind
massive jaws and he smiles under a broad moustache. To hide my nervousness I
look away but this only encourages him to talk to me. He leans over and says
through whatever it is he’s eating, “Where you from, kid?”

I
shrug, intimidated his size and confidence. “Here, Edinburgh.”

He
raises his chin in understanding. “Scottish then. You been out there? Before it
happened?”

“To
Livingston? Few times. My cousin lived there.” We’re heading there in the truck
now, leaving Edinburgh on the old A71 road. The towns and villages between here
and there have all been evacuated and we’re officially in the Cleared Zone. My
cousin Dave lived near the shopping centre we saw in the video and we hung
about in the games shop while his mum went to the supermarket. I haven’t heard
from Dave in a number of years. This American thinks it’s funny.

Laughing,
Gus claps me on the arm. “You’ll maybe see him again, kid.”

He
leans back in his seat, happy with his joke. We’re all sitting in a row like
we’re going to some battle, which of course we are, but the taste of it is
disgusting. We’ve had the training. Of course, this Gus guy could already shoot
well. Others in the group even had some experience during the outbreak. Lisa, a
woman from the North East, claimed at dinner one night to have ‘popped’
seventeen of them. Like me, she’s a lottery winner. Our numbers came up and we
won the trip of a lifetime. Gus has paid for this ‘vacation’ with his own
money. I’ve kept quiet. I just want to get in there.

I
can feel us barrelling through the darkness to this town in Central Scotland,
leaving my hometown of Edinburgh. Other places got hit harder, so they say, but
there’s not much left of Wester Hailes where I grew up. I was in the cinema the
first time I saw one of them. He seemed like a normal schemie sort of guy, with
the low slung trackie bottoms and the hat at a stupid angle. He was just sort
of standing there, looking depressed, then he just attacked this lassie for no
reason. I’d seen something similar before outside the library but this was
different, more frenzied and he bit right into her neck. I knew what he was
straight away, even before someone shouted “Zombie!” and we all got off our
marks. And that was the end of the movie.

There’s
a change in the engine noise and I hear what I think is shouting. Through a gap
in the canvas coverings I see we’ve come inside a massive gated corridor.
Outside, there are some people holding up banners and shouting their heads off.
They’re outside the fence but still in the Cleared Zone. Gus humphs a laugh.
“Protesters,” he says, half to himself, then shouts out louder, “They can’t
feel nothin’!”

A
couple of our fellow travellers laugh at him but I see Lisa just curls her lip
slightly. “Some of those people have family in there, wandering about.” She has
to shout to be heard.

Gus
just shrugs. “You’re comin’ in too, sweetheart. If anyone has a problem, ya can
call my solicitor.” He says the last word in what he thinks is a British
accent. Lisa sets her jaw to one side, folds her arms, and looks at the canvas
ceiling.

Finally,
we’re out the truck and into the cool autumn air. There’s no breeze and apart
from our movement there are no other sounds. We’ve fallen in, army style like
we’ve been trained. Sergeant McIntyre  has ordered us to stand easy; feet apart
with hands clasped behind the back. Her face gives us a proud look as she looks
us up and down. We’ve had a week of this and she’s telling us we’re ready now.
One afternoon and it will all be over. I wonder how I’ll feel afterwards.

We’re
inside a small fenced area. Jerry appears from a portakabin next to the wire.
Carrying a clipboard, he’s in his chinos and green polo shirt with a red ZP
stitched into the left breast. The stylized P seems to appear out of a slashed
Z. I’ve been studying marketing at college and interested in such things. You
even find yourself saying ‘zee’ instead of ‘zed’. We’ve heard all his stories
of being a Holiday Rep in Ibiza when the outbreak happened. He says he barely
made it out alive and now he works here. Next summer, he hopes to go back out
there. ZP Inc have a park there too, you know.

“Good
morning, everyone,” he says breezily. “Not long until you get in there. I just
need to run over some of the safety information.” He points over at a large
board fixed to the wire. In large bold type, under the ZP logo of course, is a
big list of rules we’ve had drummed into us since the beginning. He reads through
them. “One: This is a live environment. Two: The Infected are in the Park.
Three: You are about to enter the Park. Four: Danger of death is more likely
than serious injury. Five: If you are infected, you will stay in the Park and
become part of the Attraction. Six: Head shots are the most effective way of
stopping one of the Infected. Seven: Do not shoot each other, except in an
extreme emergency. Eight: You enter at your own risk. Nine: Have fun.”

After
being given the chance to leave, which none of us take, and signing a final
sheet to that effect, we enter the Park. I’m in a three-man team with Lisa and
Gus. We’ve practiced all week. Sergeant McIntyre was quite blunt about why I’m
with these two: I’m the most observant, Gus can really shoot, and Lisa is fully
motivated to terminate the Infected. We’ve each been given MP5s, the sort of
thing you used to see the police carrying at airports. It looks like a machine
gun but it fires single shots instead of a million. The idea is to take out the
Infected, not pepper you and your team. Like we’ve been trained, we hold it
across ourselves, with the muzzle pointed down, our finger poised over the
trigger guard. When we leave the final gate, Gus steps ahead while Lisa covers
the rear. I’m in the middle, looking all around. We are quiet, our knees
slightly bent, and we cover the ground quickly.

Let
out in the part of town known as Craigshill, we are moving through an old park.
A wide river is to the left of us and high buildings are on our right. Assured
this immediate area is kept clear of the Infected, I don’t feel assured and I
can feel my body tingle. I want to run back and bang on the gate but I keep
going in with the others to face the Infected. As we reach the building, we
head up a cracked tarmac road to a main road, furry with weeds. Some burnt out
cars are dotted at odd angles.

We’re
inside the town proper now, though still far from where the Typhoon pilot
parachuted to his death. Low buildings meet us. They face each other in long
strips up the hill. Every leaf moved by a breath of wind startles me. Gus
stumbles slightly as his boot finds a pothole and I jangle with fright. He
holds up a hand and we stop. I look Lisa in the eye and there is something
feral there, wolfish and dark. The corners of her mouth smile at me. We look to
Gus. He gestures towards the corner of a partly fallen down house. We nod and
follow him over there. Already my calves are hurting from moving quickly in a
slightly crouched position.

Finally
we are there and rest our shoulders against the wall. Gus is panting. He has
hauled his large body up here and is already feeling it. Lisa leans in and
hisses. “This is madness. We’re already pinning ourselves against a wall.”

She’s
pissed off with Gus for having set himself up as the leader and she’s right
about our position. We can’t see a thing except where we’ve just came from. Gus
nods and sticks an eye round the corner. He looks back at us, nods then steps
out. I follow and we’re in the open again. The old fallen down bungalow we’ve
just been behind fronts onto a walkway with an identical facing of buildings.
These houses form terraces with a paved walkway in between. We form up, me in
the middle, with Lisa behind. As I look ahead over Gus’s shoulder, I see one in
the flesh.

For
the first time in over six months, I see one step out from behind a gap in the
terrace. He’s ragged, clothes all torn, eyes bulging grey and red, cheeks
sunken in, skin torn and haggard. It’s one of the Infected and it lumbers
towards us with a breathy urgency. “I got it!” calls out Gus and he shoots. It
takes him three shots before he even hits it in the shoulder and another two
before he hits the head and the Infected guy falls down.

Gus
rushes up to see his kill. Lisa curses and we go after him. Gus has dropped his
stance, and holds his gun across him. I’m sure he would have dropped it if it
weren’t for the strap. Lisa and I keep our formation, watching out for each
other and more Infected. For the first time, I’ve got the MP5 at my shoulder
and I’m staring down the barrel. As Gus dances around the fallen Infected I
cover the body in case it moves again, while Lisa scans the area. She’s managed
to put herself into what’s known in a combat situation as the dominant position
and I feel cool under her watch. The body on the ground is quiet.

“Hot
dog,” says Gus. “I got myself one. He’s actually finally really dead this time.
I got you now motherfucker.”

It’s
like he’s taunting the prone body. Suddenly he shouts up into the air and lets
off a couple of rounds.

Lisa
is mad. “Cut it out! You’re making too much noise.”

“What
the hell are you worried about? Draggin’ more of ‘em here? That’s what we came
for!” Gus fires off another shot.

We
all pause on that for a moment. Lisa sighs in agreement and all find ourselves
smiling at each other. He’s right. This is what we came for.

I’m
on point as we head towards The Mall, a small neighbourhood shopping centre.
We’re in a good rhythm now. Gus is at the rear and Lisa is right behind me.
I’ve got my MP5 at my shoulder. Leaning into it, I keep my knees bent as I step
forward. We’re quite out in the open as we approach the low building. To our
left is an office block and what looks like an exploded public toilet. An
exhausted old pub has fallen off its stilts onto the courtyard below. We ignore
the boarded up supermarket and head for the main entrance to the Mall. A large
roller door is half opened. Rubbish has spilled out from the opening and been
blown around. I pause to get my bearings. Lisa taps me on the shoulder and then
points with a side on palm towards the roller door;
Go
.