Hellspawn (Book 6): Retribution Page 12

  “No idea,” replied Sam.

  Jonesy was listening intently over the distant siren which DB kept alive by periodic shots to the cars. Eventually he relaxed and ordered them to move on. It was easy to imagine threats lying in wait, ready to pounce on the unwary. The horrors witnessed on the barren killing fields of Afghanistan paled into insignificance compared to the apocalypse. Their enemy in the Middle-East had, in some small part, a desire for survival. The zombies didn’t have any survival instinct whatsoever.

  Passing through a second, smaller yard, Jonesy could see the unmistakeable stalls of horses. Someone had taken the time to open the twin section doors, allowing the animals to flee. A picture of each occupant was laminated and stuck beside the dark openings. Maybe it was a show farm? he pondered. A small explanation of each horses age, temperament, and lineage was printed below the proud portrait. One of the images of a majestic white steed triggered a memory; a line from a book, or it might have been a film, Jonesy wasn’t one hundred percent sure.

  “And I looked, and behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.”

  “Dawn of the Dead,” remarked Winston.

  “What?”

  “That quote; it’s in Dawn of the Dead. Seems pretty weird that it was meant as fiction and turned out to be a documentary.”

  “I think I remember it now. They’re stuck in a superstore.”

  “Shopping mall,” Winston corrected.

  “Aren’t they the same thing?”

  “Kinda. They have a load of smaller shops in them, not just one big store.”

  “A shopping centre then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did the film end?”

  “They got attacked and overrun.”

  “Damn. I wish I hadn’t asked now. No happy ending?”

  “It wasn’t good or bad. They got away, but where would they go? The world was gone. I think it was just putting off the inevitable.”

  “That’s bleak.”

  “Tell me about it. The remake was even worse.”

  “They did a remake?”

  “Yeah, it was pretty good. Some of the survivors get away too, but they get stranded on an island and attacked. You don’t find out what happens to them.”

  “Probably eaten.”

  “Probably,” Winston agreed.

  Coming to the side of the farm, the low stone wall had another gate that hadn’t been used in years. The padlock was brown with rust and the chain had fared no better. The shrubs and grass were taking over, concealing the lower half of the steel completely. Sitting opposite was a parade of shops. Their construction was far more modern, most likely the eighties. Lacking the charm of the centuries aged structures of the town, they had been built for speed and cost reduction. Boxy properties with bland windows and plain red bricks. Nothing of the flair of Arundel town’s medieval architecture had made it out this far.

  “Look,” Sam said, pointing between the cars.

  Bodies could be seen laying prostrate. More were tangled in a heap, while others had fallen through the archery shop doorway. The one defining characteristic was the presence of an arrow or a stubby bolt buried in their heads.

  “They put up a fight, that’s for sure,” said Jonesy.

  “I don’t think it did them much good in the end,” Braiden muttered, indicating the shuffling shadows at the upper window.

  “Let’s put them out of their misery and get the loot,” Winston added, hopping the unlockable gate.

  The four turtles passed over their barrows and followed. Soon, everyone was standing by the decomposing corpses, grateful to the frigid temperatures for keeping the smell marginally under control.

  “Just drag them clear and we’ll cover you,” Pea offered. Nocking an arrow, she aimed the steel tip at the gloomy doorway.

  The rotting bodies had all been recent converts to the undead cause, judging by the damage that could be seen through the liquefaction. Defensive wounds from holding the zombies at bay had finished them off. A gnawed off finger, the indentation of teeth on a grey cheek, and the favoured modus operandi of the undead; a chunk of missing forearm.

  Pulling at a pair of trousers, the decomposing body stretched and tore. Anja held a hand to her mouth and turned away from the spilling gore. “I think… I think we might need to go around the back,” she gulped.

  Jonesy had no better luck, it was like trying to drag jelly. The temperature, although cold, was just above freezing. Everything he clutched came away with a sickly pop. “I agree, let’s try the back.”

  The shops were divided after every fourth premises. A small alleyway large enough to get a vehicle through, but not wide enough to steal valuable square footage of saleable property, led through into a tiny courtyard. Even the most modest van would be required to do a seven point turn as a minimum to turn around.

  “Why do they make everything so cramped nowadays?”

  “Greed. Lack of space for new building. But mostly greed.”

  “We moved to a brand new home just before the outbreak. My bedroom,” said Anja, making an air quote gesture with her fingers. “Was barely big enough to fit a single bed in. It was tiny.”

  “It’s just the way things are, sorry, were, nowadays. I remember my dad complaining about it. He said; if stupid people keep paying for shoeboxes, the builders will keep building shoeboxes.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean to insult your parents,” Braiden added when Anja scowled.

  Sam’s cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean your folks were stupid. I know there weren’t enough homes to go around before.”

  “And now we live in a castle,” she finished, the scowl disappearing to be replaced by a mask of grief. “I wish they could’ve been here with me.”

  “I know it doesn’t help, but never say never. I think without TV, internet, and stuff, we’ve managed to convince ourselves we’re pretty much alone. The prison, castle, cathedral, and that manor house tells me otherwise. They really could be ok.”

  “I don’t think it wise to get one’s hopes up, dear,” said Gloria, sadly.

  “I know, miss. But a little hope can’t be a bad thing?”

  “Provided it’s tempered with an equal amount of realism, I suppose not.”

  Anja smiled at Sam, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m ok. I know they’re probably gone. Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”

  Jonesy tried to ignore the outpouring of grief, concentrating instead on the yards all around them. “I think we’re all clear until we get inside. Sam, Braiden, would you mind coming with me to clear it out? The rest of you stand guard until we’re done.”

  The rear door was locked up tight. Pushing at the corner, the cheap PVC lined material flexed slightly under the pressure, indicating there was no lock at the upper edge. Feeling all down the side, the only area of resistance was the main lock in the centre.

  “I’d have thought they’d have better security than that,” Jonesy whispered.

  “It’s probably alarmed as well.”

  “You’re probably right. Thank goodness the power’s out, eh?”

  Leaning back, he drove a shoulder at the door. A dull crack came from the frame. Ramming it again, the cheap lock broke and the entrance swung wide. Having already seen the visitors from the window, the zombies were waiting for the group. Staggering out into the daylight, they swiftly met the sharp ends of the bladed weapons. Braiden watched for any more movement as they wiped the brain and skull fragments from the machetes.

  “Clear?”

  Tapping the blade on the wall, the clash carried through the shop. Nothing else stumbled to investigate, so Sam waved to the others to join them.

  “What do we prioritise?” asked Pea.

  “Everything that looks dangerous,” replied Jonesy.

  “That’ll be the whole shop then.”

  “It could be. We’d best be ready for a couple of trips then,” Jonesy grinned.

  “I think it�
��ll be worth the risk,” confirmed Gloria.

  “Absolutely!”

  It wasn’t food or medicine they were securing, but something in many ways better. It was the ability to strike back and make retrieving the life sustaining goods a little easier. He’d rather have a few cases of ammunition for the rifles, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. As time wore on, the human race would gradually regress to the earlier technology by default. The times of mass produced firearms was at an end. Electricity was gone, for now at least. More importantly, the knowledge of their creation was gone. Trapped inside the decaying minds of the wandering dead. Was that a good thing? He wasn’t entirely convinced.

  After clearing the bodies, the four wheelbarrows were lined up at the rear entrance. Jonesy and Gloria carried out a quick sweep of the business just to be on the safe side. Being only two wide open floors from front to back, it took less than thirty seconds. In the corner of the upper level, a couple of living, green tinged skeletons shivered and snapped their teeth. Scraps of polo shirts the same colour as the shop display littered the floor; these were the workers of Archery World. Having lost all the skin, muscle, and connective tissue, tendons and silvery sinew hung severed from the gnawed joints and exposed bones. The brains were intact, hence the blasphemous imitation of life on skeletal bodies that could no longer function.

  “That’s awful,” groaned Pea.

  “It’s sick,” agreed Holly.

  Not wanting to get close to the repulsive cadavers, they drew their arms back and loosed two arrows at close range. Shattering into the brain, the chomping mouths fell still.

  “You did them a kindness,” said Jonesy, patting them both on the back.

  “Let’s clear this place out!” Braiden whooped, unfazed by the horror.

  “I agree,” replied Gloria, genuflecting and saying a prayer for the dead shop assistants.

  “Where do we start?” asked Sam.

  “At the top, mate,” replied Jonesy.

  All along the walls were racks and glass cases. Opening them up, they studied the contents as if looking at them long enough would answer the question of their purpose.

  “What’s recurve?” Braiden frowned at the big sign above a massive row of brightly coloured, unstrung bows.

  “God knows. Any idea what compound means?” Sam replied, frowning himself at the next rack along.

  “Compound is a place where people live isn’t it?” offered Anthony.

  “Not in this context, dear,” said Gloria.

  “I think it’s based on how they work,” suggested Pea, picking up one of each.” These.” She held up the recurve. “Are like the old fashioned bows and arrows.” Putting it down, she held up the purple compound bow. “And these use the wheels and stuff to get more power.”

  The students looked at the two different styles and it seemed plausible. The simple, one material recurve bows were just like they’d seen on hunting programs, or old films with archers peppering an approaching force with arrows. The only difference was that out of the forty or more on offer, only six were made of wood. Each of the others seemed to be made of a rigid polymer, with garish colours favoured.

  “Why the heck would you use orange camouflage on a weapon?” Winston remarked at one of the absurd coatings.

  “No idea. Load them up,” said Braiden, grabbing an armful.

  Pea put down her old show piece and picked up one of the compound bows from the display. It was heavier than the wooden version, but her hand moulded around the grip as if it was made for her. The tear drop shaped pulleys at the top and bottom rotated as she pulled on the string. Drawing it back, the resistance was greatly reduced over the simple version and it didn’t have the effect of straining her shoulder muscle quite so much.

  “I like this,” she said, turning the lethal equipment over and over while inspecting it.

  “It’s yours,” said Winston, picking up some of the similar weapons.

  “What about all these?” Anthony asked, pointing at another rack.

  “It looks like bare bones of arrows. The tips, shafts and flights. Grab them all, every last pack.”

  The plethora of rainbow hued ammunition went into the barrows until they were overflowing.

  “We’re full up,” Gloria called through the doorway to the scavenging team.

  “We’re definitely coming back,” declared Jonesy, looking at the vast array of equipment remaining on the shelves.

  “I think this looks important too,” Winston said, surveying a bizarre contraption of levers and pulleys.

  “What do you think it does?” asked Braiden.

  “If I was to guess, I’d say it was to fit bow strings? You know, hold the thing bent while you attach the line.”

  “There’s a lot more to this than just twanging arrows into faces, isn’t there?” mused the young hell raiser.

  “It looks like it. I’ll grab some books on the second run. I’m buggered if I want to lose a finger or an eye on one of these things.”

  “Pussy! You’ve got spares!”

  “True, I just don’t think I’d rock an eyepatch.”

  “You would totally rock an eyepatch,” whispered Pea into his ear.

  “Garr!” Winston exclaimed like a bemused pirate.

  “Let’s move out!” Jonesy called, ending the awkward exchange and saving Winston from further blushing.

  Chapter 19

  The flotilla of small vessels bobbed its way up the river. A thin layer of ice had formed along the banks, glinting in the morning sun. A mist rose from the earth as the radiant heat started to thaw the overnight frost. Thank God for a warmer day, Matt thought, taking his hands from the wheel to rub them together briskly.

  So far everything was going well. At the current rate of knots, they would be home within the hour. The night had been a well-earned respite from the unending shit of their existence and he looked around at the dour faces and the evident hangovers. Losing one of their own had come as a bitter blow. Minds were firmly on the job for now; they would say a proper farewell when the boats were docked and the prison gates closed once more.

  The morning had been uneventful following the large assault which they’d put down the previous day. Once the docks had been double checked for threats, they had hotwired the chosen craft. Leaving the boats ticking over in the marina for an hour, they had eaten a small breakfast in the luxury yacht. This precautionary measure had identified three boats whose engines were damaged from the months of being idle. They had seized up and died in that watery graveyard, instead of on the river, potentially blocking their return. Others had quickly been picked and, apart from the initial cough of protest and a cloud of oil residue smoke, were chuntering along nicely. The water from the engine pumps was sloshing from the exhaust pipes and the wake lapped against the prow of the trailing vessels.

  “What a gorgeous morning,” Max sighed, pulling close to Matt’s thirty foot open decked boat.

  “It’ll be better once I can get a warm cuppa,” he replied.

  They had forgone the million pound yachts for sturdiness and ease of loading the goods. They needed workhorses for the coming job, not a floating palace. The cheap rods and tackle boxes were still stowed below and Matt hoped to have a chance to use them one day soon. The undead provided an abundant source of maggots and worms for bait. All he needed was to find the time. And work out how to get safely to and from the little charter while being chased by the zombies surrounding the prison. Maybe another day.

  “Mind your heads, we’re coming to the bridge!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Keep a central line to miss the support columns.”

  The discordant engines rumbled and waned as they formed up single file. Seeing movement on the bridge, he pulled out his shorter chopper in case a rotter tried to drop on his head.

  “We’ve got company!” Matt called the warning.

  “How many?”

  “I only saw one but there may be more. Get ready for some zombie rain!”

  Watching the rim
of the wall ahead, they willed the undead to ignore their leisurely passing. Sixty feet. Nothing. Fifty feet. Nothing. Easing back on the throttle to minimize the noise, Matt pushed on. Forty feet. Nothing. Thirty.

  “Don’t fucking move!” shouted a stranger’s voice.

  Out of nowhere, the entire length of the bridge was alive with movement, but not from the undead. Fierce looking men popped up and glared down.

  “Who the fuck are you?” yelled Matt, hand tensing on the throttle lever.

  “We’re the ones you’ll be coming with today.”

  “The fuck we will!” Matt called out, ready to run the gauntlet. Before he could jam down the lever, a roar from behind caused him to spin round in surprise. Andrew was trying to get past, crashing into Paul’s boat in the process. Casting a terrified, guilty look at Matt, he sped through, rocking the lead boat so badly that Matt was forced to grip the sides. Ducking low, Andrew gave it everything and the nose of the craft lifted from the water as it shot forward. The men on the bridge seemed unperturbed, lifting and aiming rifles and shotguns at the other boats in warning. Unfazed by the escape attempt, the biggest one nodded to the three of his companions who crossed to the other side through the cars. Narrowly missing the concrete stanchions, Andrew rocketed through the shadows and came out the other side with a whoop of exhilaration.

  “You fucking idiot,” sighed Matt.

  Completely exposed now that he was through, the men opened fire. Glass shattered, plastic tore, buckshot peppered the hull. A couple of .22 rimfire rounds punched through his back, coating the console in blood. A shotgun blast hit him in the flank, spinning him a full one eighty. Staring at Matt dumbly, he probed at the leaking holes in his body. Unguided, the vessel listed to the left and ran aground, throwing him to the deck. He didn’t get back up.

  “That was unfortunate,” lamented the huge man. “Don’t fuck with me again or we’ll kill you all right here.”

  “How do we know you won’t kill us anyway?” shouted Matt.

  “You don’t,” came the honest reply. “Make your choice. If you surrender, ground your boats on the western bank. If not? You’d better be smarter than that fuckwit.” He indicated over his broad shoulders.