O N E
Sometimes, Phil wanted to congratulate God for having an amazing sense of humour. No, really. Ten out of bloody ten.
He'd said he wanted to direct a zombie film when he was younger, he didn't say be in one.
He took a bite out of the arm and wrinkled his face.
`Don't complain,' the zombie to his right said.
Phil glared at him. `I wasn't.'
Adam pulled the arm out of Phil's grasp. `You were totally about to. My turn.' He wrenched his head back, bringing with it a strip of dried meat and skin, then sent it on around the circle. Lydia got the arm last; the rule was, the less effort you made to catch the human, the longer you had to wait to eat it. She scowled.
`This is all I've got? You've left me the gross bits.' She jabbed at the ligaments clinging to the bones.
Amy shrugged, folding up a piece of cloth and dabbing at her red, sticky lips. `Run faster next time.' She'd gotten the best. Phil hadn't seen anyone so good at hunting in ages.
But now his attention was taken from the food, and drawn back to her, he remembered that there was something he really should ask.
`Um,' he whispered. Everyone turned to look. For a mad second, Phil expected his face to get hot. Oh, wait. He cleared his throat, making his voice stronger. `Now food's done, can we talk about something?'
Amy rolled her eyes. It annoyed Phil enough that he pushed down The Awkward and properly raised his voice. `What do we do when the food runs out?'
`We've talked about this…' She said it as if it was an unreasonable thing to worry about. Phil wanted to hit her.
`Not enough!' He snapped, instead. `Everyone's gone. There's only a few people left outside. Twenty, maybe.'
She pressed her fingers to her forehead. `I know… I know.'
Phil gritted his teeth so hard he felt one of the rotten ones crack. Probably the molar that'd been bothering him for weeks.
In the awkward silence, Adam pretended to be really, really interested in someone's jawbone lying next to his foot, and Lydia began fiddling with her earrings.
`If we leave,' Amy said slowly, refusing to look at Phil, `we're vulnerable. You know… what could get us. This place is safe. Out there isn't.' She gave him a look so deadly, Phil would have feared for his life.
`If we're starving, it doesn't matter if we're safe, does it?' Phil almost said Jesus, Amy, we're already starving, but that'd properly set her off.
`Phil, we don't need to talk about this right now. We've got time.' She stood up. In the pale, dimmed light shining through the windows, she almost looked human. Shadows speckled the light side of her face and the floor, thrown by the constant haze of ash outside, like a horror-world version of snow. `Tomorrow, meet up here. We'll go out hunting.' Then she paused and finally glanced at Phil. `Only take one. We need to make them last.'
Behind the Customer Information desk was the place Phil slept. It was like Batman's cave, Superman's fortress of solitude… er… he ran out of similes.
But so much more importantly, it was like a tiny part of home; pictures of celebrities he'd liked, taken from magazines he'd found in the aeroplanes, were tacked to the back of the desk. The photo of Matt Bellamy still had someone's old chewing gum pressed over his guitar. Maybe it was the scared child in him, leaping out for about the millionth time and wishing for a bit of nostalgia, but Phil had wanted to replicate his Rawtenstall room as best he could.
The only thing Phil really needed was a photo. Not a paper image taken on a red carpet or with a long-lens camera, a real photo. He'd had one of his dad, long ago, kept inside an old locket of his mum's. It looked like it was taken on a beach, and his dad was turned to face the camera, his mouth slightly open, in a smile. Maybe Kath had called, "look over here", then snapped the picture with no warning. The happiness in the photo was contagious. God, no one could look at it without smiling along too.
Phil had had to sell the locket in the end, maybe a month before he turned. It was exchanged with a soldier for food, and he'd forgotten the picture was inside. Obviously, Phil had remembered after his stomach was full, and after the soldier was long gone.
So that was that. My own stupid fault.
Phil picked up a box of matches, struck one, and lit the oil lamp above his head, keeping everything as far away as possible.
The safety of the light spilled out. Phil wriggled back into his nest of mouldy blankets and old newspapers, trying to relax. Half-thoughts began drifting through his mind. Maybe, someday, he could write down all the story. He'd always wanted to be a writer, after all. Then he could bury it, in an old Quality Street tin, maybe, to protect it from decomposing. And if the world picked itself back up, someone could find it. They would know what had happened to them, all the people who'd lost their potential whilst trying not to lose their lives…
Phil yawned without opening his eyes, and slowly began to fall asleep.
Outside of the massive, reinforced windows, the ash turned pale blue as the smothered sun filtered through it. It swirled gently, blown this way and that by the breeze.
`Phil!'
He jumped and sheepishly turned back to Amy. She was glaring at him so hard he half expected lasers to shoot out of her eyes.
`Now everyone's paying attention,' she snarled, `I'll start. Me and Adam tracked them down yesterday. They're hiding in the old car mechanics.'
Phil knew the place she was on about. It was ten, maybe fifteen minutes away. Full of weapons, too. Tyre irons, wrenches, hammers. It was going to be a tough morning.
`Okay.' Amy held up her bloodied folder, then turned to the first page. `Let's go over the plan.'
They knew the plan.
Everyone knew the freaking plan.
Phil began daydreaming again.
`... then we'll cut them up, and that way, everyone shares the weight.' Amy snapped the folder shut and put it in her rucksack. `Let's go.'
Phil slid his feet into the strong, rubber workboots they found in one of the airport store cupboards. People probably used to wear them when handling electrics. All of them had their own pair; Phil's had moulded to his feet over time. Now they were so comfy, he barely noticed they were on. He made sure his glasses were duct-taped securely around his head. If they fell off… God. He'd better just make sure they didn't.
Right in front of the door, Lydia was shifting from one foot to another, beaming so wide her face just about tore in two.
Look, he could understand.
When Phil got hungry, it felt like dying all over again- vision blurring and going black, pain through every inch of him- but at least he had the decency to feel sorry for whoever he ate. Lydia was looking downright cheerful, bouncing around like an excited puppy. Insulting as that was to puppies. Suppose dogs are extinct now… those feral packs didn't count.
The screech of metal jolted him back to Earth.
Adam and Lydia were pulling away the barricade of a plane engine. Zombies are pretty strong, when they've got the motivation of food.
None of the humans inside the mechanics noticed them.
Phil counted the heads he could see. Five. They were smiling about something, laughing.
Poor things. But at least they'd only be taking one. Until next week.
Silent, Lydia crept around the side of the building, holding wads of newspaper in one hand and a lighter in the other. She was keeping it as far away from her as possible. She vanished around the corner.
Then...
Then, the voices stopped. Phil could always hear the moment they realised.
Smoke began streaming through the shattered windows, between the bars, and they began streaming through the door a second later.
Phil crouched down behind a bin, Adam hidden behind an old skip opposite.
The first one to run out was a stocky old man.
Adam and Phil launched at him, pinning him down. Amy knelt down, gripped under his chin, and jerked his head to the side. There was a snap and he went limp. That was it- they could go-
Then a tyre iron came flying out of nowhere and Phil was lying on his back, stunned. A new crack had appeared in his glasses, cutting across the swirling ash he could see above him.
`Don't you dare!' Adam roared from somewhere above him, and there was a howl of pain. And another.
Another.
Phil sat up, the street tilting, and realised something warm and sticky had sprayed over his face. Why were they staying, fighting? No one else had.
Amy was taking on two at once- a girl hanging off of her back and a man darting around, both of them trying to get a clear shot with their knives and lighters. Amy was moving so fast she was almost a blur. Lydia was crouching behind the bin, her arms over her head.
Phil staggered to his feet, like he was in a dream. They all had their backs to him- he put his hands around the girl's neck, squeezed and heard a small, quiet choke. He squeezed until she slid to the ground with a thump, ash puffing up around her body, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, the purest blue.
And Amy finally managed to catch the last survivor, forcing him flat on the road.
He was spitting and struggling, filthy and wild. He had a scar across his lip- and brown messy hair- and dark eyes- and-
And then it was gone, as Amy brought her fists down with enough force to split the road under him. There was an awful, wet splatter. Phil winced and looked away.
Amy stood up, then turned around to face her pack. Her sleeves and face were drenched in gore.`Not meant to go that way,' she muttered, as if to herself, then began licking the blood off of her hands.
The fog in Phil's head vanished when the hunger hit him. He doubled over, gritting his teeth against the scream. The horrible, aching pain began running over his body and Phil squeezed his eyes shut. Then a cold hand was pressing something into his. Without thinking, Phil wolfed the food down, just wanting it to stop, not even caring the taste was so bad.
Finally, the pain faded. Phil opened his eyes, and realised at some point he'd fallen over.
`Thanks,' he muttered, managing to stand up without his knees buckling again; Adam shrugged, meaning, no problem.
He looked down at the girl, her red scarf tangled under her like a pool of blood. They'd all taken bites out of her already, leaving her looking horribly incomplete. The whites of her eyes… well, they weren't white anymore. Watery blood was still trickling from her button nose, moving its way down her cheek.
`Hey!' Lydia yelled, jumping up and pointing to the end of the street.
They all stopped crouching around the girl and looked.
Phil had counted five people living in that mechanics; only four bodies were scattered in the street.
The survivor had a shovel strapped to their back, and was flying over the tarmac like they'd grown wings in their boots.
`Can we go after um?' Lydia asked, greed written into her freckles. The muscles in her legs were already twitching, ready for the chase.
`No!' Amy roared, slapping Lydia with her voice. Lydia flinched. `No,' she added, quieter, looking sadly at the bodies. `We already have too much.'
Phil watched the survivor turn the corner, and vanish. They were probably heading off to join another colony somewhere. Or maybe they'd get torn apart by a dog pack…
`Oi, earth to Major Tom.' Lydia waved her hand in front of Phil's eyes. `We're cutting up now.'
By Amy's timetable, they were only meant to spend ten minutes dismembering each body and taking it back to the airport. Hahaha.
After a very long hour, Phil drew the short straw and had to carry back the torsos. Never fun. They were really heavy. Adam properly lucked out- he only had to carry the eight arms, which wasn't really any different to carrying firewood. It just happened to be firewood that leaked on your clothes.
And after they got back to the airport, there was hanging them up, and setting up a fire, and smoking the leftovers so they didn't go off too quickly, and…
By the time night came, there wasn't a muscle in Phil's body that didn't ache.
He crumpled behind the Customer Info desk, not bothering to get undressed, not even bothering to take off his boots.
In that strange, half-unconscious, half-awake place, Jimmy Fallon was interviewing Phil about his debut film. Tell me about the casting process… How did you come to the film's conclusion… smoke was drifting in the air… What special effects were used? Hmm... yeah, that's really interesting. Smoke? Phil thought sleepily.
He forced himself to wrench open his eyes, and staggered to his feet.
The smoke was everywhere. Phil ran into the atrium, and froze when he saw what was outside.
A fire was burning on the runway.
The planes. All filled with fuel that they couldn't work out how to extract. Phil could feel the heat, through the thick walls and reinforced windows. No. No no no no...
And then he heard a snarl and a scream rip through the air.
Lydia.
Phil froze, so scared he couldn't move.
And then the screech cut off, and all he could hear was the fire crackling. Phil stayed rooted to the spot. Like a hand had grabbed his spine and wouldn't let go.
Footsteps.
A dark shape came out of a side door, silhouetted against the fire. They were striding forwards and holding a shovel like a sword. They paused, and looked around.
Their eyes fell on Phil.
Phil bolted to the doors and tossed the plane engine away, all eight hundred pounds of it. It crashed through the money exchange office. The survivor was chasing him, he could hear their harsh, heavy breaths-
Phil's hands were on the glass of the door when there was a flash of light and an explosion. Suddenly Phil was thrown out into the freezing night air, crashing into a streetlight, snapping it into a sideways V, and falling to the ground, stunned.
Glass was scattered all over the tarmac, glistening centimetres from his eyes. And fire was raining down from the sky.
Phil howled and wrenched away from it, scrambling for cover. He ended up on his belly underneath a car, frantically scrubbing at his clothes to make sure he wasn't burning.
Another explosion. And another.
Every time that animal fear took over his mind, obliterating any kind of thought in it. But finally, it was over and Phil had exhausted himself.
The airport was destroyed. He peered at it from his shelter. Flames crackled from every inch of it. Glass, tiles and concrete had spewed out from the building, where the explosions tore through it as easily as a bullet through a human.
There was no way any of them had survived that.
Phil shuddered. He was alone. He was alone, and in the dark. Children were afraid of the dark. Adults weren't.
And they were wrong.
Phil knew now that being afraid of the dark was a very, very wise thing to be.
The fire had stopped falling from the sky. If he avoided the burning patches on the ground, he'd be fine. He'd be fine.
Just stay in the light. Phil began to crawl out.
Something hit the back of his knees.
He collapsed forwards, and a boot crashed down between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the floor.
`You killed my friends,' a voice hissed. The edge of the shovel pressed into the back of his neck.
Phil scrabbled on the tarmac for something, anything, and found a shard of metal. But the survivor kicked it away and dragged Phil upright.
The red mist of survivesurvivesurvive took him over and Phil let out the same animal howl that Lydia had. He grabbed the survivor around the throat, their pulse twisting under his fingers, spun around and hurled the body into the air.
They slammed into the road, bounced, and skidded to a halt, lying broken, face-down on the ground.
Phil was still shaking.
`I'm safe,' he whispered, forcing himself to walk towards the body. The adrenaline and fury began to fade as he muttered it again and again. `I'm safe, I'm safe… they're dead, I'm safe-' Slowly, he pushed at the survivor's shoulder, rolling them onto their back.
It was a man.
Blood was oozing out of a cut on the side of his head. Most of the skin was grazed on his nose, forehead and right cheek, and his bottom lip was torn completely. His long, straggly hair was matted with blood and dirt and ash.
Then he let out a small noise, surprisingly soft. So he wasn't dead. He could be, within thirty seconds, potentially. But…
Phil didn't think he could kill someone unconscious. It didn't seem fair. There wasn't enough brutality in him.
`And I'll die if I'm alone,' he whispered, to his shaking hands and twitching shoulders; when the world had turned itself inside out, when everything collapsed, something had woken up. No one knew properly what it was. Or who it was.
But It was there.
Phil made his decision, and pulled the survivor into the recovery position. What he remembered it was, anyway. Hello cheeky- leg up, roll over. Right? There was a loop of fabric around the survivor's neck, too. Phil decided he'd better take it, just in case it got caught on something and the survivor suffocated.
And then Phil sat down, wincing from the heat of the fire and looking over his shoulder into the inky black of Luton, with its faceless, wrecked buildings, waiting for daylight to come.