Kurt was having a bad day. He was running over on his current job, after discovering a blocked kitchen sink was the result of months, or years, of fat being poured away, instead of being disposed of in containers. After replacing the pipe and checking the water was running away freely, he knelt down, made one final check on the drain for leaks and sat back on his heels. Looking around, he felt disgust at the state of the property and how people could live like this. Saucepans on the cooker top were mouldering, a layer of hairy growth rising from one unidentifiable dinner component. Washing up seemed to be a forgotten art to these types of people, and the only use for the deep bowl on the sink was to facilitate the draining of the chip pan oil. The smell, a combination of decay, fatty cooking, and cigarette smoke was bound to be on his clothes for the remainder of the day, which made him mildly nauseous. Yellowing stains from nicotine were all over the once white ceiling and curtains.
Shaking his head in pity for the person who lived there, Kurt closed his toolbox and stood up. He turned the water off and wiped the greasy residue that the tap left on his fingers down his work trousers. He placed the toolbox outside the front door of the flat and went to find the occupant. Opening the lounge door, he was assailed by a cloud of tobacco smoke that was thick and cloying. The owner looked around from the worn red chair he was sitting on and smiled, dark brown patches staining his front teeth. Jeremy Kyle played on the TV, someone was shouting bleeped obscenities at another person on the stage about whose child it really was, while the victim of the abuse stood up and walked off to the boos of the audience. What a state we are in, thought Kurt to himself. The old man stood in visible discomfort, put his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray that was likely to be a major fire hazard at any moment, and made his way over.
“All done sir,” remarked Kurt, taking a step back into the slightly less noxious air of the hallway. Limping across the lounge and issuing a racking cough, the man followed Kurt into the kitchen.
“That’s great. What was the problem son?” the old man inquired.
“The drain was blocked with cooking fat, sir. I had to cut the pipe out and replace it, but you are good to go now.”
“Really? I always make sure it’s warm when I pour it away and run water to wash it through,” pondered the man.
“The problem you have is that when it hits the cold drain it just hardens again, and this is the result. Try and pop it into an old milk bottle and throw it with your normal rubbish if you can,” advised Kurt, trying to be tactful.
“Will do son, thanks for your help,” he remarked, as he followed Kurt to the front door to see him out.
“Have a good day sir, take care.”
“You too son, all the best,” replied the yellowed old man as he closed the door, sealing the flat once again, from the clean outside air.
Moving down a short distance on the walkway, Kurt put the toolbox down onto the grey concrete.
Leaning on the balustrade, he
closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to shift the lingering smell in his nose. He knew it was a pointless endeavour; it wouldn’t go until he had a change of clothes and a shower later. The repeating thud of loud bass emanated from the flat behind him, followed by raucous laughter. He felt a deeper sense of pity for the poor old man, who had to deal not only with ailing health, but anti-social behaviour in his twilight years. The country is in real trouble, Kurt mused, when suddenly, he heard a shout of pain carried on the wind.
Walking to the far edge of the balcony, he looked out over the second floor railing to see what the commotion was about. From his vantage point, Kurt could see Portsmouth docks, where ferries were docked and
dropping off or taking on passengers for the day. The waves were high from the wind, breaking against the ships with large plumes washing over the decks. Even at this distance, he could see the huge vessels listing dangerously. If the wind
got much stronger, they would probably cancel any further ferry
services. Scanning to the right, his vision passed over the local cemetery with its high iron gates, but he failed to process the large volume of people that were moving around inside and walking through the gates.
Looking even
further, he was just in time to see a heavyset man push another to the ground outside the Hare and Hound. The man was with another, who then began kicking the prone figure on the ground, who was struggling to rise. Reaching into his pocket he removed his phone, selected its
video function, and started to
record. Focusing the phone picture and zooming in, Kurt saw
the second man lift his leg and stomp
down hard on the head of the man on the ground. Kurt winced and visibly flinched, the sound of the impact carrying to him even on the fierce wind. Three more times the thug did this until the victim was still. The crunching noise echoed within his mind, a sound he would never forget.
Still filming, Kurt felt his gorge rise. He was sickened by what he had just witnessed and lowered the phone. Holding the railing with one hand for support, he fought not to vomit. The area was quite rough and deprived, fights were a regular occurrence in the local pubs and clubs. The sheer brutality they had inflicted on the helpless victim was abhorrent. They were worse than animals, but at least he could help the police bring them to justice. It was only a shrill yell from the scene that broke his thoughts; he looked up, raising
the camera once more to gather as much evidence as possible. As the two attackers ran back into the pub, Kurt noticed more people entering the carpark. His mind could not comprehend what he was seeing on the small screen in front of his face. The people were, unbelievingly,
incomplete. Sure that his mind was playing tricks after what he had just observed, Kurt
rubbed his eyes and looked again. More people
were appearing, two more, then a group of five, all slow moving. He panned the camera along the chain of those
things that were shambling along,
and saw the cemetery gates, which now stood wide open, issuing
forth a stream of stumbling, crumbling vileness.
Kurt stood there, watching, but not seeing. He must be dreaming, this was a nightmare and he was still at home in bed. Any second it would be 7 am, the alarm would start shrilling. He would awaken for another day, safe in the knowledge that things like this are figments of a wild imagination. Without thinking, he put the phone away, and pinched his forearm as hard as he could. Sharp pain was the result, could you feel pain in dreams he wondered? The din of bass behind him was now a comforting sound, a normal sound. Laughter and shouts emanated from the flat again, contrasting with the sheerest horror which he could not really be seeing from the balcony.
A blare of a car horn, followed by the heavy squeal of locked wheels and skidding, dragged him from the fugue state he was in danger of retreating into. The driver had unsuccessfully tried to avoid one of the ‘people’ that had walked into the road. The body was taken out at the legs, hit the bonnet, and rolled up and over the car like a rag doll. The windscreen cracked into a mad cobweb and the airbag deployed with the force of the impact. Hitting the ground and rolling, the body left a trail of pieces in its wake. Distraught, the woman driver opened the door and leapt from the car. Crying and clutching her face, she ran towards the victim. However, as she got closer she slowed then
stopped, confusion registering on her face. Cars had now begun to stop because of the accident, and Kurt could see the mass of heads turn towards the vehicles. The woman driver had started to slowly back away. The body on the ground was now crawling towards her, legs shattered and useless, flopping behind it. Figures had moved between the car and the poor woman, and were reaching, moans getting louder as they approached. Kurt shook himself, reached forward and grabbed the cold iron railing.
“BEHIND YOU! RUN!” he screamed, as loud as he could. The woman looked around and then up at the source of the shout. “BEHIND YOU!” he shouted once again, gesticulating wildly at the closing pack.
Too late, she turned, the first of the horrors grabbing and falling on her. Overwhelmed by the suddenness of the weight, she collapsed, screaming. Drivers had climbed from their cars and two young men ran forward
to help the woman. For a moment, their bravery faltered, but the gurgling screams were enough to energize them. The man with a baseball cap took a wild kick at the closest monstrosity. Kurt was amazed to see the head separate at the neck, and go spinning, hair flying like the sparks from a Catherine wheel. Landing hard, the head rolled and came to rest against the kerb. In the back of his mind Kurt
couldn’t help but shout, ‘
GOAL
!’
Kurt had seen enough, he turned and ran, grabbed his toolbox and headed for the stairs. The screams of the woman fell silent and were
replaced by the agonised wails of the good Samaritans. As Kurt reached the bottom of the first flight of steps and turned to continue down, he was blocked by one of the things that had heard him on the balcony. In a split second, he took it all in. This thing was once male, but now quite obviously dead. Maggots and worms spilled from the eye sockets, mouth, and nose. Its skin was different hues of green and yellow, with liquids running from many splits where it had tightened over expanding corruption, and torn as it clawed its way free of the grave. The clothing was hanging in rotting tatters, covered in fresh soil. Unable to see, still it ‘saw’ Kurt, and took a lumbering step forward on legs whose loose, suppurating flesh was sagging over the burial shoes. The smell hit Kurt like a physical blow; the flat he had been working in was a perfume in comparison. Equal parts horror and disgust pulsed through him.
Lifting the tool box, Kurt
roared, and ran forward to meet the dead man, smacking him square in the chest, causing liquids to splash on the box.
He pushed with all his might, even as the man tried to reach and grab him. The rotten cadaver hit the protective railing, its spine made a loud crack and the body folded backwards. Dropping the tools, Kurt took hold of the remains of the bottom of its trousers and lifted them over. They followed the rest of the body thirty feet onto the concrete path below. The sound was like a raw steak hitting a kitchen worktop before tenderising.
Careful to avoid the dripping residue that was left on the railing, Kurt looked over and saw that the body and skull
had split, saturating the stone pavement.
It was too much, Kurt
gave up the breakfast that he had eaten that morning. Doubling over and holding his stomach, pieces of cereal and milk spread in a pool at his feet, which only brought on another bout of retching. He knew he was wasting time, but the vomiting had left him weak. Taking a deep breath, he tried to regain some composure. Picking up
his toolbox, Kurt
carefully made his way down to the ground floor without meeting any other resistance. Looking anywhere but at the mess he had left, Kurt ran to the van, pressed the unlock button, opened the driver’s door and climbed in, careful to put the box down without touching the wet sides.
He sat there trembling, aware of the noises increasing around him; car horns, alarms, screams and shouts. Leaning forward, he took a few deep breaths, brought his forehead hard into the steering wheel. The pain was refreshing and reminded him he was alive, despite what could have happened in the stairwell, and what was happening to countless people in the area. Starting the van, he put it into gear just as a couple went sprinting past him holding hands, shooting fearful looks over their shoulders. They rounded the corner and were gone. Looking in the side mirror he groaned aloud, feeling
revulsion and pity in equal amounts. The poor lady, who had been unlucky enough to hit the dead person, had now joined them. There was no way she was still alive. She had been the victim of cannibalism that much was obvious. Large chunks of flesh were missing from her face, arms, legs, and torso. Bone showed through large open wounds. Her pale blue skirt and white halter top were now scarlet and wet, leaving a red trail behind her. Looking away, Kurt lifted the clutch and accelerated quickly, wheels spinning before finding purchase and shooting him forward.
No longer concerned with road safety, he mounted the kerb, ran over a patch of grass that separated the road he was parked on, and onto the dual carriageway that led out of Portsmouth. Metal squealed and Kurt could have kicked himself, what good would it do if he damaged the van one hundred yards from the chaos taking place in his rear-view mirror? The streets were now full, both with cars, and the dead moving between them, trying to get at the occupants. Trapped with vehicles in front and behind, the motorists could only sit there and despair, ramming forwards and backwards until their
engine was damaged, or windows finally broke and entrance was gained by the horde. For a moment, Kurt eased off of the accelerator and was tempted to turn and use the vehicle as a weapon to try and help. He slowed from forty, to thirty, and
prepared for a hard turn. Thoughts of his family entered his mind, and with no small measure of self-disgust, he accelerated hard, forcing himself to look away from the mirror and concentrating on the road ahead.
Hitting seventy miles an hour, Kurt flashed his lights and sounded the horn every time he saw a car or person. Some looked bemused, some angry, and one even gave him the finger. From the horror he had just escaped, the normality of people walking down the road, admiring the view of Portsmouth Harbour, made him question himself. Only the toolbox, and its noxious coating, reinforced the knowledge of what had transpired. The first spattering of rain hit the windscreen, blurring the landscape, until Kurt put the wipers on. Between the motion of the wiper blades, Kurt watched as people ran in an effort to avoid the downpour. He couldn’t help but feel utter helplessness at what they would soon be forced to flee from.