Dead City Page 4

  “You're looking good. Lost some weight?” asked Jon.

  He hadn't.

  “Are you covered in blood?” asked the Minister.

  “It's not mine.” said Jon.

  “I don't know whether that's a good thing or not...”

  “Found a kitten. Poor little fucker didn't last long.”

  The old man was concerned for his liaison.

  'The government man looked at him with big ol' kind eyes, but he knew better, knew better than to take anyone in charge of this whole mess at face value. It was clear something going down, chances are this guy was in on it, but this was his only man on the outside, so he had to at least feign trust in him.'

  George broke the silence left as Jon narrated to himself. “You doing okay in there?” he said, with a smile that appeared genuine.

  “Yeah.” Jon said, as he looked into the Minister's kind, fatigued eyes and felt the need to back-peddle. “No, fuck it, no. It's getting worse.”

  “How much worse?” asked the old man.

  “People breaking in, ghouls getting soul-boners, monolith's killing anything they can get their hands on. It's like a tide of unrest washing up against the shore, and some day soon there's gonna be a wave so big that takes the whole place down.”

  “So what's to do?” asked the Minister.

  “I think I know the guy kicking the dog...” said Jon. “But I need to know for sure.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the stolen vial, putting it up to one of the holes in the glass.

  “That doesn't look like it's going to fit, old chap.” the Minister said.

  Jon lined it up with the hole and slotted it through. The vial fit perfectly in the gap.

  “Well I'll be...” said the old man, taking the vial. He pulled the stopper out and sniffed it, a foul odour filling the air. He plugged it back up and put it in his pocket.

  “You'll tell me when you get a report back, right?” Jon said, knowing he shouldn't have to ask.

  “Soon as I know, you'll know.” the Minister said, wishing Jon a good week as he got up to leave.

  'He turned his back on the elder statesman, the closest thing he had to a boss, and marched on outta there. Despite the coffin-dodger's words of support, he still didn't know if the old bastard could be trusted, and even if he could, he was a senior citizen on the other side of the wall, what use could he really be to someone down on the ground, knee-deep in the shit?'

  9

  The man without a body was trapped. The light surrounding him was gripping tight, and although he had no physical sensations, he had the impression that whatever little form he had was curled up, surrounded by warmth, as if returned to the womb.

  Beyond the light, the orb rushed through the tubes under the city, speeding past abandoned underground stations and sewers until the border of the Dead City was up ahead. Under the walls, the City limits were marked out by a man-made subterranean river leading back to the Thames.

  * * * *

  The dead, it was often believed, could not cross running water. Whether that was actually true had only been briefly tested in the seventies.

  Margaret Thatcher went to the trouble of having the river re-routed nonetheless, because that was the kind of woman she was.

  * * * *

  Crossing the stream, the orb flew towards the end of the tunnel, emerging out of a sewer in Dead City, careening straight into a building, and smashing on impact, the particles of glass falling to the floor to join the remnants of previously shattered spheres. He burst forth from the light, which swiftly dissipated, and found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. The clean and bright buildings and streets of living London were gone, and all that resided in this new place were vistas of decay and death.

  A loudspeaker installed in front of his arrival point squealed at him.

  “New arrival, you have a visitor. Please make your way to the visitor's centre.”

  The route was signposted, albeit by rusted signs that were barely legible. As he made his way through the city, he was terrified of all those he passed, as zombies, ghouls, and various other sub-species of unliving walked by. Their rotting flesh was unlike anything he had ever witnessed in his life, or post-life for that matter.

  When he saw the visitor's centre up ahead he was grateful to find a sanctuary, if only for a short time, and after all his experiences since death, couldn't wait to see Ashley again. Walking straight through the door, he saw her waiting behind the glass.

  “Ash!” he cried.

  She didn't respond, looking around as she waited anxiously for him to make his appearance. He moved closer to the glass, intending to go straight through it, when inches from its surface he discovered he could move no further. The river running below was doing its job, keeping the dead things in.

  He watched her, unable to get nearer, when bulbs above the glass burst to life, illuminating him.

  “Oh God.” she said, as the light filled the room, arcing out around what was left of the man she loved, finally giving him form.

  He stood before her, no face she could make out, but he was there. A silhouette that felt so familiar, leaning right up against the glass.

  “Ashley.” he said, a longing in his whisper of a voice.

  “I thought you were--“ she interrupted herself. She thought he was dead, and after all this time, it turned out he was.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Have you been okay?” he had no idea how much time had passed since they had last been together.

  “I am. I have.” she replied. “Where have you been all this time?”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Three years, almost four.”

  “Jesus.” he said. “I'm sorry.”

  “It's not your fault. How could it be your fault?”

  “How did I...” he trailed off, couldn't bring himself to say 'die'.

  “I don't know...” she said, looking at his undefined, ghostly face. Trying to find the features of the man she loved.

  They stared at one another in silence. Neither knowing what to say to the other. Then the light went out, and in an instant, he was gone.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  Without the aid of the light, she could no longer see or hear him. The door opened, and she was ushered out by a guard who informed her that their time was up.

  “I'll be back next week.” she cried back at him.

  There was no response, but she knew he heard her. He watched her leave, and went through the wall back out to the streets of Dead City.

  As Ashley left the visitor's centre she passed a stout, balding man, who gave her a polite smile. She turned and watched as he entered, the guard giving him a respectful nod as he ushered him inside. She'd seen him before, but couldn't put her finger on where.

  * * * *

  The Minister returned to the visiting room and waited patiently. He wasn't a patient man, but the second of his weekly meetings forced patience upon him. As he sat there, charting the cracks in the paint, following the journey from Highbury & Islington to Ruislip, he felt a knot in his gut. The same knot he felt at the same time every week.

  After twenty minutes of rapping his fingers on the glass, his foot tapping unconsciously on the floor, the door on the other side of the glass opened. The Necromancer shuffled himself in. Slowly, he took a seat and smiled at the Minister with a rotting grin, the scent of decaying meat on his breath wafting through the holes in the glass.

  “Your boy wants to redistribute wealth...” said the creature, taking the lead in the conversation, as he always did. “He's got quite a red streak, it seems. Didn't think he'd swing that way.”

  “That doesn't matter.” said the Minister. “We have bigger problems. Your separation appears to have failed.”

  10

  Since the brief meeting with his wife, the disembodied spirit was lost, literally and figuratively. He cursed himself for not having inherited his father's gift for memory, fondly recalling how the old man could recall direction
s and street names, plan routes around the city with the speed and skill of a cab driver. His father used to say he had 'The Knowledge', or at least an abridged version, given that there were entire square miles of the city that were completely blocked off.

  Seeking shelter, the spirit had attempted to enter several buildings, only to discover that each of them was populated, and whether they be ghouls or deadites, spectres or wights, each had claimed their domain and did not appear to take kindly to strangers.

  As the sun began to set, he settled by a dumpster in an alley, just about giving up finding somewhere to call his own. He knew he didn't actually need a physical shelter. It wasn't like he could feel cold, and rain would pass right through him, but the thought having a roof over his head might give him the subconscious veneer of having some remaining thread of humanity. The shadows of the city stretched out as night drew forth, and the nocturnal creatures began to stir.

  Hidden behind the dumpster he hoped and prayed he wouldn't have to see anything hideous. If he could just last a week he would get to see Ashley again, and if only for a short while, could pretend that things were normal.

  His prayers were not to be answered. The dumpster began to shake as something inside it started to wake. The hatch flew open with an almighty clang and bursting forth to tower over him was what he could only describe as a monster. Its flesh was melted charcoal-black, fingertips of raw bone carved into jagged points. It loomed above him and unlocked its jaws with a clack, swinging them wide like a snake, revealing cracked, sharpened teeth as it twisted and turned its head towards him, eye sockets hollow, but still seeing somehow.

  “Ssssssoul!” it said, lifting long, spindly legs over its shoulders, as if it were performing in a disgusting circus act.

  All four appendages clutching on to the lip of the dumpster, it stretched its body towards him, and started sucking deep at his essence. The spirit felt like he was being ripped apart atom by atom, consciousness draining, thoughts slowing. He was unable to move or act. Darkness cascaded around his field of vision and he could hear his last thoughts echoing through his disembodied mind.

  'Three years after I die and I'm actually going to be gone...'

  From somewhere beyond the shadows, a series of loud fleshy thwacks rang out. The darkness steadily subsided, and slowly, the alley came back into view. He looked around at the teyollocuani, the soul-eater that was formerly standing over him, to discover it was now in several pieces across the alley. Its head was lying across the road from the dumpster, desperately trying to suck at his spirit, but failing elegantly.

  He looked up at a shadow standing over him. A man in a trilby and overcoat, extendable batons in each hand.

  “What the fuck?” asked the spirit.

  “I just saved you from... well, more death than you're unliving right now.” said Jon, steely pride in his voice.

  “I meant what the fuck are you doing in my Goddamn body?!”

  11

  Mary Gilligan was reading by the fire. It wasn't cold, but she had always liked the way the light and shadows danced around the room. The mantle above the flames was laden with photos of her long departed husband and their still-missing son. Having been retired for some time, she now found solace leafing through the library of over a thousand books her partner of over five decades had left her.

  The doorbell rang, and the warmth of the fire proved itself only skin-deep, as a chill ran through her weary old bones. It was after dark, and she was expecting nobody. She recalled the stories that were often on the news, of old ladies answering the door at night, only to be snacked upon by some unspeakable fiend. She dared not think of it further, for fear of her blood pressure.

  Another ring, followed by a rat-a-tat on the door. Whoever it was didn't seem to be going away, and they definitely wanted her attention. Cautiously, she walked to the door, as another knock of knuckles rapped on the old wood.

  “Who is it?” she asked with a tremor in her voice, trying to contain her fear.

  “It's me.” said the voice on the other side. “It's Ashley.”

  The pensioner breathed a sigh of relief, unbolting the door, pulling back deadbolts and finally the latch. As the door swung open, Ashley was greeted by a warm smile inviting her embrace. She held back her combination of joy and sadness and simply hugged the old woman.

  Mary insisted on boiling the kettle, even though Ashley declined tea, and put out a selection of biscuits that had been waiting for someone to eat them since long before the two even met.

  “Mary, will you sit down?” she asked, taking the woman's frail hand.

  “Oh, hush girl, I'm not that old.”

  “No, please.” she led her mother-in-law to the chair by the fire, and pulled up another opposite her. “It's about Jon.” she continued.

  “He loved you, you know that?” she said, her big old eyes becoming glassy.

  “I know.” said Ashley, trying to talk over a lump in her throat. “Now, you've got to listen to me, okay?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “I saw him today.”

  The old woman said nothing, her eyes thick with tears, a smile of false teeth wide on her face.

  “He's...” Ashley didn't want to say it, saying it would only hurt the elderly woman she adored. “When he left, when he disappeared, he didn't do that on purpose.”

  “You spoke to him?” Mary asked.

  “He, he doesn't remember what happened. But somehow, he...” again, she couldn't use the d-word. She held her mother-in-law's hand tight and looked into her eyes, both knowing what she was going to say, and both on the verge of tears.

  “He passed away.”

  The two women cried by the fireside, their tears glistening as the warm light pirouetted shadows around the room. Ashley stayed with Mary until the old woman was too exhausted to cry any longer. She put the fire out and helped her out of her chair, stopping as her eyes met the mantle.

  “I knew I'd seen him...” she said to herself.

  “What's that dear?”

  Ashley was staring at the photos. In one of them, alongside Mary, between her husband and a younger Jon was the Minister.

  “Who's he?” she asked, pointing at the man. The photo was taken at a time when he was thinner, his hair still mostly in-tact, but it was unmistakably the same person she saw earlier at the visitor's centre.

  “That's George.” said Mary. “He was Mike's best friend back since they were at the ministry together. Best of friends through to the end.” she smiled, lingering on happier memories.

  “George? But I've seen him somewhere else.”

  “On the telly maybe, he does something in government still, although I don't know what these days. Don't like to watch the news too much, there's never anything cheery happening.”

  Ashley offered to help her mother-in-law up to bed, but she refused. As she wished the old lady goodnight, she realised she was walking away with more questions to be asked about Jon's disappearance than she had arrived with. But finally, after almost four years, she had someone to address them to.

  12

  'It was just another ghost, another apparition haunting him like all the others. He knew that, but he didn't like the feeling he got when the thing talked to him. He knew it was just another mad, fucked up spirit, a lost soul trying to mess with his head, but it was starting to make him question –'

  “Would you stop for a second?” asked the disembodied spirit, as he chased after Jon.

  Jon was mid-strut and trying to get an good internal narration going, but every time he hit a flow, his pursuer interrupted.

  'It was making him ask questions; how come he could see ghosts? What was it about him that was special, when most people couldn't see the damned bastards? Was it--'

  “Hold up, we need talk about this!”

  “There's nothing to talk about.” said Jon, hastening his stride at the sound of groaning up ahead.

  'Was it why he was given the job? That question only made him ask more quest
ions. How long had he had the job? He couldn't remember, there was so much he couldn't remember and –'

  The narration was stopped once again, but it wasn't due to the spirit haunting him. He turned the corner to find six zombies trawling the streets.

  “Hey!” he yelled to them. “You know the Goddamn rules...”

  * * * *

  The rules of Dead City, few as they were, stated that zombies weren't allowed to roam in groups larger than three. They had a habit of herding, and once that started, one man alone had no chance stopping a stampede.

  The Dead City in Shanghai once had to bring the army in to stop a herd, after a thousand zombies grouped together in a matter of minutes. After four days of walking in circles, the creatures finally found their way to the wall, climbing on top of one another to reach the peak, falling over the top and exploding on to the streets below like water balloons of organs and viscera. One by one they burst on the street until there were enough bodies and entrails to cushion the fall of the others, at which point they started stalking the streets of Living Shanghai.

  Of course, a liaison keeping zombie groupings down was easier said than done. They had a hard time remembering rules, let alone counting to three.

  * * * *

  The zombies were not pleased at Jon's request, and lunged at him. A few flicks of his wrist, and half of them were on the ground, the remaining three looking at their fallen comrades, confused.

  “That's three.” explained Jon. “Three on the ground.” he indicated to their fallen brethren. “And three of you standing, you understand?”

  They grunted in acceptance. Whether they actually understood was another matter entirely.