Blog of the Dead (Book 1): Sophie (36 page)

Misfit put out an arm and we stopped a couple of metres behind Zombie-Girl. We held our knives firmly in our hands, mine numb with cold, while we watched her. She stood on this side of a driftwood gate that sealed off the bottom of a staircase carved into the chalk, and that led up to the shack’s garden. Zombie-Girl struck at the gate with a pale, stiff, but surprisingly un-ravaged hand, rattling the sun bleached, sea smoothed wood in its frame. She let out a groan.

A woman came into view from behind a bush, not the dark haired one I’d seen before the outbreak. This woman had long, straight blonde hair with a mixture of ice white and honey hues, incredible bone structure and eyes that were set firm as they peered over the top of a shotgun. ‘NO!’ I yelled as I leapt forwards, towards Zombie-Girl, making her flinch, though she didn’t look round. I couldn’t bear the thought of a bullet ripping through the brain of the strange and gentle creature.

‘Stay away from her,’ growled the woman as she started down the chalk steps. ‘Go on, get out of here!’ I stopped a few feet behind Zombie-Girl, my eyes bulging as it dawned on me that the gun wasn’t pointed at the zombie’s head, but mine.

‘It’s ok,’ I said, sliding my knife through my belt and raising my hands, palms out. I glanced round and nodded for Misfit to do the same, he did, stepping slowly forward to stand beside me. ‘We’re not going to hurt …
her
. I thought … I …’

The woman carried on down the steps and despite both me and Misfit surrendering, our hands raised before us, she kept the gun trained on my head. At the bottom of the steps, she stopped, the gun only feet away from us. Not the first time I’d stared down the barrel of a gun. The woman balanced the shotgun so she could hold it with one hand, and swiftly opened the driftwood gate without looking down. With both hands back on the gun, she moved aside as Zombie-Girl began to slowly and awkwardly stagger up the steps. Zombie-Girl lumbered past the woman without so much as a flicker of brain-lust and trundled on up with the grace and agility of a drunk after a three day bender. ‘Just forget you saw us,’ said the woman as she kicked the gate closed with a booted foot. She started up the steps, walking backwards with the gun flicking between mine and Misfit’s heads, until she’d reached halfway, then she turned and jogged up the rest.

‘Wait!’ I called out, lowering my hands now. I sprang forwards, grasped the top of the gate in both hands and yelled up the steps, ‘Please, come back. Please, I need to talk to you.’

The woman came into view at the top of the steps, the shotgun held at her side. ‘Why? She’s not harming anyone. She’s not capable, believe me.’

‘Listen –’

‘No, you listen. Ok, she’s a zombie but she could no more hurt a human than you or I could. I know that sounds crazy, but –’

‘But you’d do anything to protect her, even if it meant hurting a person …?’ I said. ‘It doesn’t sound crazy at all. In fact, she reminds me of someone I used to know … a girl called Shelby.’

I won’t lie, drinking tea in a small, cosy shack with a zombie looming over you is weird. One thing that struck me, she didn’t smell that bad. She gave off a faint clammy aroma, sort of like damp earth and rotting leaves, sweet and rancid at the same time. But the smell was nothing like the rotting-meat-in-the-sun stench of your average zombie.

Me and Misfit perched on a sofa/bed at the very back of the shack. The Autumn sun streamed through the window to our right, and I pulled off one of my jumpers, laying it over Misfit’s jacket that I had already removed and wedged in the gap between me and Misfit. The woman, who introduced herself to us as Flick, curled up in a threadbare armchair to the left, cradling a mug of tea, while Zombie-Girl – who Flick had named Sara – stood, swaying slightly in front of the window. She switched from staring off into the distance, to staring right at me, sniffing the air occasionally in a manner that made me uncomfortable, despite Flick’s assurance that she only ate the rabbits and fish that Flick caught – raw of course.

‘I found her in town,’ explained Flick. ‘A gang of kids and two adults had her tied up in an ally off the High Street and they took it in turns to throw stones and sticks and beer cans at her.’ Her eyes misted at the memory. ‘I’d already liberated the shotgun,’ she nodded to the weapon that she had rested against the side of her chair, ‘from a farm near Elham on my way down to the coast, and it came in very handy to get the creeps to clear off.

‘I know zombies are killers but it just seemed wrong to treat one like that. They used to be … they … I was going to shoot her, to put her out of her misery, but she stared into my eyes, just for a moment, as though she wanted to know me or thank me for saving her. I lowered my gun and stepped closer to her but she didn’t show any interest in my flesh. Then her eyes glazed over. But still no aggression. I did something crazy then. I untied her. The action jogged her back to a sort of lucidity and we stood looking at each other for a few moments, then I turned and walked away. She followed me. That was three months ago and she’s been with me ever since. When I found this place I thought it was perfect. I didn’t think anyone would bother us down here and she’d be safe. Most people would kill her as soon as look at her, and I wouldn’t blame them really. I just … The crazy thing is, she appears to be healing.’

‘
What
?’ I said.

‘Oh, it’s only very little and the process is slow, but over the course of three months the condition of her skin has improved. Wounds and decay are definitely healing. I’ve seen an increase in her mental function. She can’t speak as such, but the groans and grunts she makes have become less random and more focussed. Like, she’ll stand by the door and groan, meaning she wants to be let out. She’ll pick up a plate and groan, meaning she’s hungry. Grunts tend to mean she’s not happy about something. She has increasingly longer periods of lucidity where she’ll respond to basic commands, like sit, stand, walk and so on. I’ve been able to teach her to hold a cup and drink from it, brush her hair …’

‘Do … do you think she’ll continue to heal?’ I said.

‘I hope so, but how much … whether her heart will start to beat, or whether she’ll ever be fully human again …You said you knew someone like her?’

‘Yes,’ I said, and I told Flick and Misfit about Shelby and how she became Zombie-Shelby and how she showed no aggressive tendencies and how I had saved her from Toby, and how that action had resulted in Dan’s death and later Toby’s after he had tried to kill me.

‘So, not everyone becomes a full zombie,’ said Misfit. ‘And they can actually heal … wow, that’s big.’ He ran a hand through his hair, letting the hand slip down his tattooed neck.

‘It’s very fucking big,’ I said.

‘It’s lovely down here,’ I said, peering around the zombie to look out of the window in Flick’s shack and over the sea towards France.

‘You should have your wedding down here,’ said Misfit with a half smile. It vanished from his face as soon as the words were spoken.

‘Wedding? You’re getting married?’ asked Flick.

‘Yeah.’

‘How wonderful!’

‘Yeah, but we don’t have anyone to carry out the service … everyone’s dead,’ I said.

‘Have you considered a Handfasting?’

‘A what now?’

Flick laughed lightly. ‘A Handfasting, it’s a Pagan wedding ceremony that dates back centuries. The bride and groom clasp hands and their hands are bound together with cord or ribbon.’

‘But we’d still need someone to carry out the ceremony …’

‘A priest or priestess would usually perform the ritual. But a practising Pagan could do it,’ said Flick.

‘And do you know a practising Pagan?’ I asked Flick.

‘Yes. Me.’

After retrieving the fishing pole, me and Misfit headed back to camp with our meagre fishy offerings, and, having found the others hanging out inside my caravan, I immediately told them about Sara, and what Flick had said ... that her body and mind had begun to heal on some small level. ‘Not possible,’ said Kay.

‘But it is possible,’ I said. ‘Me and Misfit have seen her. We’ve had a cup of tea with her. And Shelby. Remember Shelby? I think that’s why she was so docile. Some people – and I’m guessing this is pretty rare – some people don’t get the full virus. They get sick, they die but for some reason, maybe their bodies reject the virus – I mean, who knows, I’m not a scientist – and they actually start to get better.’

‘So she’s … what? She’s becoming human again, sweetie?’ said Charlotte.

I looked at Misfit and he gazed at me with his big brown eyes but said nothing, back to his usual withdrawn self now back inside the camp. ‘The progress is slow. Flick’s known Sara for a few months and she’s only made a slight improvement. I don’t know if she’ll ever be human again. Maybe …’

‘Could this mean a cure or even a vaccine?’ said Sam. ‘If someone can identify what it is inside this Sara, maybe they can –’

‘Yeah, hold up, I’ll just take a sample of her blood to my fully equipped lab and knock up a batch of vaccine for you all,’ said Kay, giving Sam a light slap to the side of his head.

‘Ouch!’

‘Well, I guess I’ll be the one to say it then shall I?’ said Stewart. We all looked at him. ‘Exactly how many of these potential-recovery-zombies have we brained over the last year?’

‘Damn,’ I said. ‘Now I feel like shit.’

‘And the other question is,’ began Kay. ‘If Shelby is still out there – healing – don’t we owe it to her to go and find her?’

‘Bit of a long shot, Kay,’ said Sam. ‘Wales is a bloody long way to go to find out she’s not there any more, right?’ He looked to the rest of us.

‘So we just abandon her?’ said Kay.

‘We kind of already did,’ said Sam.

‘Oh,’ I said, feeling that the conversation could do with a change of pace, ‘I just remembered … I’ve found someone to marry us, Sam.’

30th November, 2.05pm
It’s been over a year since the outbreak began. I had a look through my blog posts the other day and saw that it all kicked off November 14
^th
last year. Wow, doesn’t time fly when you’re surviving on your wits and smashing in zombie heads on a regular basis?

Well, what better way to cheer everyone up than with a big fuck off wedding?

I wanted to hold the big day down the Warren as I love it down there … in the wild. But it was pointed out to me by Sam, as we all sat around the caravan on a cold November evening – the wind howling and threatening to blow the roof off, or us down the cliff – that it would be a health and safety nightmare. ‘What if there’s a zombie attack?’ he said. ‘They’d be far too many people –’ Sam had invited everyone from St Andrews to the wedding. ‘– in an open space with no adequate escape routes or shelter big enough for us all. It could potentially be chaos and very risky.’

‘Ok, where then?’ I asked. ‘It needs to be outside. Handfastings usually take place outside …’

Charlotte slammed her hand down on the small dining table and everyone turned to her. ‘Got it,’ she said grinning. ‘How about the gardens at St Andrews?’

– Dress … Check!

– Shoes … purple Converse … Check!

– Location … St Andrews, The Durlocks … Check!

– Someone to carry out the ceremony … Flick … Check!

– Cake … erm … no but never mind.

– Food … fish, rabbits and various vegetation and seaweed caught and foraged by Misfit as well as the last of our winter veg from our garden … Check!

– Alcohol … the small amount we could find in the stores in town … Check!

– Decorations made by willing volunteers … still on going. But should be finished soon.

– Happy and enthusiastic Bridegroom … Check!

– Happy and enthusiastic Bride … I’m working on it …

Lastly, the date … we’ve set it for Thursday 6
^th
December. A wedding to end all weddings …

December

8th December, 4.35pm
Red on white. As I write this, my wedding dress is laying over my bed, exactly where I left it on Thursday night. It’s covered in blood. A mix of black and red blood soaking through the layers of lace, right down to the silk underskirt, giving a 3D effect of gore. The silk bodice is almost completely red, my arms, even now, the same colour.

I woke up on my wedding day, sat up and looked at the man who, by the end of that day, would be my husband. Well, not legally as a Handfasting isn’t actually legal, but seeing as the law no longer existed, in mine and Sam’s eyes, we’d be married. I kissed his warm cheek and his eyes fluttered open. He looked at me and smiled, a broad, dopey grin, like a happy drunk who’d spied one more whisky for the road. I tried, but I couldn’t quite match his smile. ‘Morning beautiful,’ said Sam, lifting his head from the pillow and brushing my cheek with his fingers.

I heard a squeal from outside our room, then a knocking on the thin door. ‘Happy wedding day, people!’ screamed Charlotte. Then before either me or Sam could stop her, the door burst in and she stood there beaming. ‘Right, time for you to clear off, Sam, and for Sophie to be transformed.’

Sam sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Give me a chance, Charlotte. I’ve only just woken up,’ he said.

‘But we’ve got a lot to do. There’s Sophie’s hair for a start …’

‘What’s wrong with my hair?’ I grumbled, running my hand through my tousled and unwashed main, the red dye now so grown out, it looked like it’d been dip-dyed.

‘Nothing sweetie. Nothing. Nothing we can’t fix … with a bit of time,’ said Charlotte with a reassuring smile. ‘Right, well. Sam sling your hook to the boy caravan and let the make over begin!’

When Sam had been packed off, Charlotte heated some spring water in a pot on the fire outside the caravan and my hair was washed, brushed, fringe trimmed and the lengths of my hair twisted and pinned to my head. It hurt a bit but I knew better than to complain. Once dry, Charlotte and Kay unpinned my hair and the resulting curls were pinned up loosely and decorated with some little fabric roses that we found in town. When it was finished, it looked nice but it didn’t look like me. Hair and make up done, I struggled into my dress with the help of Kay and Charlotte, making sure my hair didn’t get messed up. Purple Converse laced, Misfit’s biker jacket on, I looked at myself in the full length mirror in my room.