A/N Cut to Mike's POV now, so it gets a bit dark - there's some torture involved, just to warn you!
Chapter 5
A Zombie Slave
The four collectors in the back of the van with Mike kicked and punched him repeatedly as it jolted its way through the busy streets of London. They held him down for each other, pinning him to the floor and shackling his hands behind his back so he was defenceless against the onslaught. Mike considered himself to be a soldier, admittedly in the Territorial Army, rather than the regular forces, but a soldier none the less. He was used to wielding weapons, using escape and evasion tactics and fighting in hand to hand combat. At least in training anyway. This made his current situation all the more distressing. He had been overpowered and captured purely as a result of his own weakness for sugar. The mental torment this fact inflicted on his pride was almost equal to the physical pain he was currently suffering. When the vehicle finally came to a stop, he was thrown, bruised and battered on to the gravel driveway in front of an opulent and rather vulgar mansion. As Mike tried to shake the fog from his head, there was a sharp jerk on the chain attached to the tight metal collar around his neck. He coughed uncontrollably as it choked and strangled him, but through the haze he could see a pair of boots. Straining against the restraint of the collar, he looked up into the evilly smirking face of Duane Benzie.
"Ah, Mike, Tim's faithful little friend. We have the monkey, if not the organ grinder." Duane droned in his impossibly deep voice.
Mike tried to reply, the words he chose sounding clear in his head, but he could only produce an incomprehensible groan from his mouth.
"Get him to the work camp." Duane ordered the collectors, who were standing straight backed and alert, awaiting instructions. "And make sure he gets special attention, won't you?" Duane's chilling words were still thrashing around in Mike's head nearly an hour later. He was chained to a wall, undergoing what the men attacking him euphemistically termed 'training'. They lashed him with whips, over and over, his skin splitting instantly into welts from the force of the blows. They pounded him with cricket bats, pulverising the soft tissue of his legs and torso until he was collapsing, hanging off the chains which held him, arms outstretched, to the wall. Mike had never experienced pain like it. Simply being a zombie was agonising enough. His whole body hurt as his muscles and joints struggled against one another to coordinate his movements. But the additional suffering inflicted on him by Duane's men was extreme, the pain slicing through his entire being, leaving him screaming for relief. The men seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in what they did to Mike, laughing and taunting him throughout his ordeal. He tried to think about Tim, the one person who could usually make him feel better no matter how desperate the situation. Mike focused all of his waning energy on trying to picture Tim winking and smiling at him over his tea that morning, which helped him endure the seemingly endless torture. When it did eventually stop, Mike's body was covered in wounds and his bare feet grappled for a steady footing in a slick of his own blood.
"He's had enough." Mike heard one of the men say. "He'll be useless for labouring if he gets any more damaged."
Mike's shackles were unscrewed from the wall and he crumpled to the ground.
"Leave him here while we do the next one. Then, John, you take him out to the construction site."
The echoing sound of the men's boots receding was the most wonderful thing Mike had ever heard. Left alone at last, he closed his eyes and his fragile consciousness slipped away from him. He dreamt disjointedly about Tim, unconnected visuals popping like flashbulbs inside his head. He saw Tim's smile, heard Tim's laugh, felt Tim's arm around him and Tim's hand holding his. Mike's brain was frantically trying to erase the horror he had experienced, but it was all the more cruel when he was shaken awake and remembered where he was. John dragged Mike outside and led him by his collar and chain through thick banks of trees concealing the huge garden of Duane's house from the road. When the trees parted, Mike stopped short, staring at what was before him. If his eyes had been capable of conveying even a single expression, it would have been amazement. There were hundreds of zombies in the clearing, all apparently being held as slaves to carry out manual work. They were chained together in long lines digging drainage ditches, hauling carts of bricks and stone slabs, and building walls and structures. The construction plans, helpfully depicted on a nearby billboard, seemed to be for a vast pyramid and temple complex worthy of one of the later levels of the surprisingly addictive, late 90's computer game, 'Pharaoh'. Duane was obsessed with this game. Mike remembered Tim complaining that he insisted on playing this strategy game by himself, rather than the two-person shooters Tim wanted them to play together. The situation was so surreal Mike wondered for a moment if this was all an 'Alice In Wonderland' dream sequence. The harsh jerk on his collar reminded him that it was very real, however, and he obediently followed his captor down into the clearing to be put to work.