Diaries of the Damned (35 page)

“Run,” Paul called out to the others. The Russian soldiers had been stripped of all their juicy parts, and with the aroma of blood and adrenaline flavoring their palate, they lurched after the others.

Paul ran into the compound. He knew that Monique, Tracey, Alan and Robert were behind him, moving close on his heels. As for the rest, he neither knew nor cared at that moment in time. He had no obligation to anybody, other than Leon’s daughter, Keisha, whom he still held in his arms.

As Paul entered the compound, the cold air wrapped around him. There was something stale… something… dead about the place. For the first time since they arrived – a full fifteen
minutes ago – Paul thought about the bigger picture; about history. His mind was filed with thoughts about the people that must have been sent to such a camp. The deaths that occurred by nature’s own hand or under the guidance of evil minds made him shudder.

Paul and his small group reached the first shack relatively quickly, and with a lowered shoulder and head full of speed, Paul charged the door. It
was unlocked and opened inward. He ploughed into the property, crashing to the floor. Behind him, Monique ran in, helping Keisha, who had started to come round, and had been placed back on her own two feet by Paul. Scrambling to his feet, Paul ran back through the doorway. He was not prepared for what he saw.

Zombies. A field full of zombies. They had appeared out of nowhere or so it felt. They descended upon the fleeing bodies; drawn to them like moths to a flame.  Screams filled the air as the first of them fell. The sound of tearing flesh echoed through Paul, like a cold November wind. He saw Tim having his throat ripped out by an older woman, who dragged his body to the ground and proceeded to disembowel the man, sucking his intestines into her ravenous mouth like strands of bloated spaghetti. While many of the passengers died, an equal number reached the small shack. It soon became clear that none of the others would make it. Paul, ignoring the chill that ran down his spine, simply stepped back inside and closed the door, just as a pleading figure reached the bottom of the steps. They were missing an arm, and had a zombie inches behind them, swinging said appendage like a medieval mace. They never made it up the steps.

There was a small window within the shack, and through it, Paul and Monique watched the devastation unfold. The bus, roared to life, was thrown into reverse, and then promptly drove into the bus parked a few meters behind it. It took less than thirty second for the zombies that had killed the Russian soldiers to get inside, and even less time for the windows to become coated with blood.

“What are we going to do?” Monique asked. Everybody was sitting either on the floor or on the rusty bed frames. In the far corner stood two old wooden cupboards. There was only one door still attached, and that only held on by one hinge.

“I’m not in charge here, Monique,” Paul answered, his head buried in his hands. “This was supposed to be our ticket out of this. Now look. Look at what our government has done. It’s fucking…. Fucking ended the motherfucking world.” Paul threw his head back against the wall of the shack, enjoying the jolting sensation that ran through his neck.

“Easy, Sugar.” Monique put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “None of us know what is going on here.” She gave him a gentle squeeze.

“We can’t seem to catch a break, can we?” Paul let out a frustrated laugh, which became a giggle and soon after a full-belly chuckle.  When he had himself back under control, tears streamed from his eyes, and his side ached. “Oh God, what the fuck are we going to do?” he repeated the question posed to him only moments before, as the walls of the hut began to tremble, and the undead crowd continued to gather.

“We can’t stay here.” Robert stood up in Paul’s moment of lost control. “Those things will break down the walls in no time. It’s a miracle that this is still standing at all.” He looked around him as he spoke, as if suddenly feeling the pressure of the crowd’s expectation.

“Then what do you propose we do, Einstein?” asked Paul.

“We’re stuck in mother fucking Russia, surrounded by zombies,
in an old concentration camp!” a middle-aged and angry sounding man called out above the din of undead fingers scratching at the wood; stripping away flesh and grain in equal measures.

“I don’t know...
I mean, we could…” Robert stuttered.

“We could go through the roof.” Paul stood up and moved beside Robert. “If we get up onto the top of the building, we could move from cabin to cabin. They aren’t that far apart. We spread out. Three groups: one with me, one with Monique, and another with Robert here.” Paul clapped him on the back as he s
poke. “We keep moving, backward or forward. It doesn’t matter. We just need to thin out the herd,” Paul mused as he spoke, his mind racing through the scenarios and possibilities, hoping that he came up with something before anybody followed up with questions.

Monique took her turn to speak; much to Paul’s relief.  “We aren’t the first group of people here. They have brought others before now. Whatever happened to them, the Russians would have a fortified command center, security, weapons, and food.”

“Yes, exactly. If we can get to their stronghold, then we will be in a much better position than we are now. I know we are tired. I know that this is a shitty place to be, and I am nobody’s leader, but it is the best chance we have.” Paul rounded off the conversation, aware that each small speech he made pushed him more and more into the role of leader.

The door to the cabin shook. The frame splintered. An undead arm, raw and blistered from the cold, shot through the opening. Pus oozed from the fresh wounds and dripped onto the floor like melted cheese.

“We don’t have a choice. Quick, you three, move those beds,” Paul ordered, raising his voice to be heard above the panic that had spread through the group. “Robert, give me a hand with these cupboards here. We need to move them under the skylight.” Paul pointed above their heads, to a small, grimy skylight.

Robert didn’t need to be told twice, and had already started shifting the deceptively heavy units before Paul had reached him. 

Heaving, the two men hauled the cupboards to beneath the small skylight.

“You go first, Paul spoke to Robert.  Check that the coast is clear, and then I’ll make sure the others come through.” Nimbly, with the nonchalance that only youth can provide, Robert opened the skylight and pulled himself through the small opening. As he disappeared, another crash fell against the door and an entire plank broke free. A zombie head appeared through the gap, teeth snarling and snapping. The face was still covered with dried blood. The hole in the creature’s throat turned its growls into whistled exhalations.  The beds were slid into their position just in time, with the head colliding with the base of the frame. The tremor in the ground around the hut increased, as too did the hungry wail that drifted on the air like the heavy stench of a local landfill.

“Everybody move, now! Those beds will not hold them at bay for long. Come on, quickly now,” Paul called, helping the first people onto the cupboards. Robert leaned through the skylight and helped lift people through and onto the roof; which cracked and groaned under the increasing weight.

The bed wobbled, as the zombie crowd continued to push against the door, while the walls also began to groan and give.

“Hurry now, come on, Sugar.” Monique moved through the shack, helping to herd the crowd into the center of the room. Seven people had made it through the skylight when Paul climbed on top of the cupboard and stopped the flow.

“Robert, Robert, there are too many people up there. You need to take your gro
up and move to another building,” Paul called through the skylight. He could feel the shack beginning to give. “Monique, you go up next, take your group and head in the opposite direction.” Everything formed naturally in Paul’s mind. He simply saw the situation, their options and the best way to get around them all.

Once Robert and his group had left, each of them surviving the leap to the next shack, Monique went into the open air, swiftly followed by eight of the remaining survivors. One of the beds fell. The front door opened further, al
lowing a second zombie the chance to try and gain access. The first still had his head stuck through the space left by the broken panel, trying to burst through the gap. It got caught in the base of the second bed. A hole in the springs saved the lives of the remaining occupants of the shack.

“I won’t fit through that w
indow,”  Tracey spoke up as Keisha disappeared onto the roof.

Tracey, Alan and Paul were the only ones left standing in the shack; the second bed was on the verge of falling. The caught zombie thrashed around like a gator caught in a noose.

“It’s larger than it looks,” Paul added, horrified that he had not thought of Tracey and her belly before.

“Yeah,
come on, Tracey, we need to try,” Alan insisted. “Paul, you get up on the roof and help pull her through.” Alan spoke as if he were talking about manhandling a piece of furniture rather than saving his wife’s life.

“No, I go up last, this was all my idea. You go, help he
r through. I’ll push, if needed,” Paul insisted as another crash saw the bed topple. The zombie, rather than being freed, trapped itself further beneath the frame, and somehow managed to block the door for a few moments longer.

“I can’t. My back
is shot man. You need to do it,” Alan insisted, as the barricade finally began to give.

Paul looked from Alan to Tracey. He saw the pleading look in their eyes.

“You need to protect my baby,” Alan spoke with tone that made Paul want to weep, and so, with a heavy heart he pulled himself through the skylight. The air was cold, and the layer of sweat that coated his flesh only made the temperature seem that much colder.  

There was no time for Paul to stop and feel the temperatures, for Tracey appeared through the skylight the instant that he stood on his feet. Their ascent had not gone unnoticed however, and the zombies were rattling the shack, causing the entire structure to creak and groan. The plan was working, to a degree. Robert and Monique had both moved their group in different directions. Over half a dozen shacks had people standing on them, and gradually, the crowd
around his own shack began to disperse as the scent of the fleeing meat wafted through the air and enticed the undead to follow.

“Tracey, give me your hands,” Paul cried. Tracey, a slender thing by all accounts, had already had some difficulty in getting her engorged bosom through the skylight, and found herself wedged into the gap moments later. The swollen stomach that housed her unborn child was too large. She held her breath and tried to make herself as thin as poss
ible sucking in a stomach that was no longer really responsive to such demands made no difference.

“I can’t,
Paul! Help me, I’m stuck… help!” she screamed, thrashing about.

“Calm down, calm down, Tracey, and listen to me. Give me your hands. I’m going to gently pull on your arms.” Paul crouched down and spoke softly, as an almighty crash beneath them confirmed that the bed blockade had finally been overcome.

Tracey’s panic increased further when Alan’s screams tore through the roof below Paul’s feet. There were sounds of a struggle; a heavy struggle. Adrenaline took over, and Paul heaved on Tracey’s arms. She cried out in pain as the wooden frame of the skylight dug into her tender flesh. Her baby kicked, and struggled within its water home, displeased with the activity going on around it. 

Paul lost himself to the struggle. All around him death filled the air. The exhausted survivors, who had run out of energy before the plane even left England, were moving slower and slower. Several had misguided their jumps and had fallen to the ground. Their screams echoed in the background of Paul’s consciousness. He would only notice the true impact of the loss once he too had made it to safety. In his hands, Tracey’s grip slipped; both of their palms greased with sweat. A small trickle of blood stained Tracey’s shirt. Paul noticed it and inside his head, he paused for a few moments. He started up soon after however… what else was there to do? With another great pull, he felt movement. Tracey gave a scream
, but slipped higher through the window. The progress fuelled Paul’s efforts, and with a concerted effort, he tugged with every remaining ounce of strength he could muster. Tracey came free with a scream that caught the attention of every zombie in the complex. The shower of blood and entrails that came with her also added to the appeal.

Paul landed on his back, Tracey on top of him. The first thing he felt was the warm wetness that spread between them, and while Tracey shook and shuddered, she never made a sound. The coppery aroma of blood filled their air, and when Paul sat up, he saw the reason.
Zombies had killed Alan, and it had been the undead attached to the other end of the pregnant tug of war. Their hands and teeth had torn Tracey apart, and in pulling her free, Paul had neatly severed her body. The sounds of ravenous chomping that came from within the shack told Paul all he needed to know.

“Paul, jump, quickly! That place is going to collapse!” Monique screamed, as she quickly bounded over the buildings in his direction.

Shock gripped him tightly, threatening to shut his body down altogether. Paul looked over the roof. On all sides, undead hands scrambled at the edge of the shack, reaching for whatever morsel they could find. The shack wobbled and creaked. Paul looked down at Tracey. She was dead, he knew it, yet he could not turn and walk away. He saw her, what remained of her swollen stomach and then… just before he vomited, Paul saw her baby. It lay on the roof of the shack, encapsulated inside a blood smeared sac. Its large eyes were open, and seemed to stare at him.
You failed. You killed me!
It screamed at him.
You killed me like you killed your own children. You’re a monster!