When The Dead Walked Read online

  Then, I had a dark thought.

  Could I just use him to eat my enemies?

  He is, as I have mentioned, a big guy, so it struck me that he would be more useful to me charging forward than being held back. If we were going to survive the next twelve flats, I would need to release the tight control that I was exerting over him. I would have to take the chains off and let him take matters into his own hand. He couldn’t be infected, it seemed, so the only danger was of him getting killed outright.

  So, we were reunited. What’s more, I had three flats on the top floor, all cleared and safe and lovely again.

  Next, I wanted to get rid of my direct downstairs neighbours, in the second flat of the fourth floor. To hell with numerical order, the idea of them standing there, gawking at their ceiling, unblinking eyes rolling around their heads, following the rhythmic thud of my footsteps and the clambering pitter patter of the dog – it just unsettled me.

  But first, I wanted to find that ladder. So, I removed the armchair from its position in front of the staircase door, and I began to descend.

  The dog ran behind, and then in front of me, and then behind again. He did this not because of any burning desire to circle around me, or even to sniff out danger. He simply did it because he is terrible at taking stairs. He is gangly, long but also thick. He doesn’t have the poise for incremental decreases – it’s more of an all-or-nothing sort of thing for him. However, I trusted him to not bite off more than he could chew (no pun intended), and trusted that he would retreat to me if there was a gathering of infected at the bottom. Nevertheless I proceeded with great caution. With his feet slamming against the metal of the stairs, and my heart beating in my ears I couldn’t hear what was there in the gloomy shadows of each flight. I took the time, though my stomach could barely take it, to poke my head into each corridor on each flight to see who, if anyone, was around. I didn’t want to risk getting cut off on my way back up by some wandering soul. There was nothing. No-one. In each corridor, with only an external window looking out onto the communal courtyard at the bottom, it was as though there wasn’t even a disaster unfolding outside. These moments of stillness gave me feelings of anxious terror and a kind of serene ignorance all at once.

  The ground floor was perhaps the nerviest.

  There is only a small glass door in our foyer that separates our building from the street. It’s locked by a magnet, but I have no idea if it is still active. Presumably, it will last as long as the electrics, which would mean that, sooner or later, it will go from being ‘locked’ to ‘very much unlocked’. I don’t know how to get to it without being spotted; the lead-up to it is a very narrow, very exposed corridor. Anybody stumbling past would see the movement.

  As it was, I could get to the door that led to the carpark without even getting into line of sight of the front door, which was a bonus. The basement carpark itself, however, was a very unsettling experience. It’s normally quiet down there, but this silence took on a more eerie quality given the events unfolding outside. It’s shared between four different buildings, my own included, arranged in a horseshoe shape. They also share the courtyard above, which is accessible from the first floor.

  That means there are three more doors, other than mine, leading out of the car park. Three more doors that lead up into three different buildings. Three more lots of fifteen identical flats. Forty-five more flats with hazardous contents, the remaining ones in my own building notwithstanding.

  That’s the sort of thought that still keeps me up at night. Even if I clear this building successfully, I won’t really feel safe until I do the same to every flat in every building. It feels like a mountainous task, but the potential resources, not to mention the peace of mind, are far too much to ignore.

  I’ve made a note to plan it out.

  The other unsettling part of the carpark is the fact that you can see the road from it. It’s slightly underground, but there are four or five slats that provide ventilation running along the top of each wall.

  They also give a near-unobstructed view of the masses. Those outside shuffle past without any real goal, wandering in circles, or stopping in the middle of the road as though they are lost.

  On this occasion, they didn’t notice me, but I could hear their feet crunching on the tarmac, or getting tangled in the bushes and fences of the building site outside. As far as I know, there is no way for them to get in, not without use of tools – which I don’t think they can do. But I still don’t like being anywhere near them.

  It made me thankful that the lights down here had gone off. That wasn’t anything to do with the present situation. That was due to flooding from the aforementioned courtyard. It seems funny to me now that that used to be the biggest thing to worry about. Although I still wish the money-hungry overlords who maintain my building nothing but ill in these troubled times, I have to admit that it was good to be able to move around undetected in the gloomy dampness.

  I went to check on my car. It sits in a numbered space that corresponds to my flat position. It appears only I adhere to this system, and any number of different cars can often be found in my space and the ones around it. I popped open the boot to retrieve my hiking boots, a tire iron, and the thick hi-vis jacket I kept there. The dog jumped in and sat down, ready and waiting to go on an adventure. He loves being in the car. I think he must have been owned before he came to me, even though he was a stray when he was picked up. He wants to get into cars, any cars. Vans, buses, the flatbed of a truck. Anything, really.

  I was chuckling to myself; he had taken everything in his stride. It was as though the last few days were a dream to him. As I was laughing, I didn’t see the person in the car next to me until he slammed his fist against the passenger-side window. I jumped out of my skin, and the dog began to whine. Whoever was in there was not strong enough to break the glass, but still pressed their horrible features up against it, their eyes following me as I grabbed the dog out, shut the car up, locked it (I don’t know why) and headed for the maintenance cupboard. I don’t know if they was making a noise in that steamed-up car, but, if they were, it luckily didn’t carry outside, or signal to anyone else.

  The maintenance cupboard was an absolute mess. There were all sorts of unlabelled cleaning products, and the big ladder was being used primarily as a set of shelves for them. I couldn’t stop things from tumbling down and rolling out onto the floor, and I winced with every single noise that I made. Finally, I freed the metal stepladder. There was also an old mop bucket that was caked in grime. I realised I couldn’t afford to be choosy, so I took it as well. I decided that it would be my last resort water source.

  Balancing on a flat roof is still a struggle if it’s high enough. The thought hadn’t occurred to me when I stepped out onto it for the first time that day. The dog was sitting calmly at the bottom of the ladder, looking at me, but otherwise unbothered by this latest turn of events.

  I started preparing to set down the small pots and receptacles I had brought up with me. I walked like I was plucking each foot out of sinking sand, and I kept my body low to the ground, legs wide apart. I knew at that point I should have tied myself on to something. I don’t know knots, but I could probably have figured something out.

  The first thing I put down, a yellow plastic beaker, immediately caught the wind and blew right off the edge of the roof. That alone almost caused me to fall. I made the mistake of tracking its tumbling path, head nodding up and down as it glided away in a bouncing motion, and found myself incredibly disoriented. As it fell noiselessly over the edge, I had a million images flood to me of my own body being sent sprawling in the same way.

  I dropped the rest of the pots back down into the corridor and came back later, having lined them with gravel that I had wrapped in tiny plastic bags. They rattled as I took each step, but at least this time they would be both weighted and sanitary – the gravel was from a garden centre, and not exactly the sort of thing you want in your water for too long. I always liked having plants around the house, so I always had a good supply of stones in the cupboard for drainage. They’re all dead now though, I didn’t want to spare the water. I regret it; it would have been nice to have some companionable life-form, something growing while everything else seemingly died.

  Like with all things, I took my time with placing everything on the roof, not wanting to rush or drop anything else. A plastic beaker might go unnoticed, but how many falling saucepans would it take before all eyes were drawn upwards? I had already taken too much of a risk with the bodies. Soon enough, I had covered what felt like every square inch of my roof with the cups, beakers, saucepans, measuring jugs, vases, kettles, old wine bottles, that ratty mop bucket, paint tins, plant pots, and Tupperware boxes.

  It next rained about two days later. I went up in the morning to find a plethora of drinkable water. I had already decided my priority in terms of what I would most to like to put my lips to, but ended up spilling half a mug on the dog’s head as I clambered down the ladder in an ungainly fashion. It was so much effort keeping some vessels upright that I ended up taking a cup up there, and scooping a drink directly every time I needed one.

  My periods on the roof have become a time to sit between activities, and ponder my situation. This period each day – sitting with my legs dangling through the skylight, taking a drink – is also the only opportunity that I afford myself to spy on the neighbours in the building directly across the road from me.

  Some of my over-the-road neighbours either died or turned with their curtains open. There are still hundreds of the infected on the street, which is obviously a concern, but the building opposite looks untouched.

  The building opposite was television for those who don’t like to watch television. Positioned as it is, almost exactly across
from us, it was like having twelve different channels all playing soap operas. There was the old lady who had twenty-four hour care: you could look out at any moment of the day and see that the lights would be on, the carers sitting around on the sofa, chatting their way through umpteen cups of tea. Below her was the guy who liked to bang his girlfriend against the window while watching Kevin Hart stand-ups on their enormous TV. Whether they found Kevin Hart’s stage persona a particularly strong aphrodisiac, or if they were just often caught up in a swell of passion, it was nevertheless weird to see them bouncing around while a gigantic, near life-size Kevin Hart wandered to-and-fro behind them. Then there was the family with the kid, or should I say, the kid with the family. It was obvious from the number of toys, balloons, the cartoons on the TV, the unstoppable youthful presence careening around at all hours, who was in charge in that household. In the penthouse were the smokers. They were the only ones who liked to watch everyone more than I did, and the buildings were close enough to make accidental eye contact during a bout of less-than-subtle people-watching. I’d been told that one of them was a famous BMX biker, but other than the fact they drove a van covered in Instagram stickers, I saw no sign of any exploratory nature.

  Everybody else has their curtains closed, and have done so for much of the time that I have lived here. It depresses me that they could sit in almost total darkness, day after day. Shutting out the sun lest it glare on the screen of their TV. Or, maybe they were sick of people like me staring at them all the time.

  Now, the shoe is on the other foot. Those whose curtains are open are standing by their windows. The old lady, the guy and his girlfriend, the young family with the kid, the smokers and possibly famous bike-riders. I don’t know how good their eyesight is now they’ve turned, whether they can see me moving around or not. But if they’ve clocked me sitting on the roof, they have given no sign. They seem content to wait, and observe. Or maybe it’s a kind of stasis, a hibernation when they don’t have a target.

  Do they run out of energy?

  This is another reason why I don’t like looking out of the windows any more. I don’t like to see them. I don’t want to spend my time thinking about them, wondering what they are wondering, or if they are wondering at all. I don’t want to concern myself with their movements or their habits. I want to meet them on my own terms, in this house, one-by-one, until they are all gone.

  One step at the time, that’s how you climb mountains.

  After my trip to the maintenance cupboard, the next few days progressed according to plan: one flat per day. I found that around half the doors were unlocked. The trusting nature of my neighbours surprised me.

  The fourth floor was a mixed bag, all things considered. If I never have to go back into the Eastern European man’s flat again with his two kids, I will be grateful. The two students had a bunch of weed that I took. As for the old man: it seemed like he had died in his sleep, under his blankets.

  He was the worst, even after all the trials of the other flats, and the gory battles fought and won. This old, emaciated man brought me more anxiety than all of the other combined. I was so afraid to go near him in case he suddenly opened his eyes, and lurched at me. But, it seemed like his heart had given out around the same time as the infection had taken the rest of the city by the throat, and the world had seen fit to give him peace, rather than deciding to bring him back.

  It made me wonder if those outside and inside the building were not dead, but rather alive, and if I were to die in my sleep I would be spared the unending agony of wandering the earth looking for flesh.

  But then again, as I said, I’m trying not to speculate too much.

  At the time of writing tonight I’ve successfully cleared thirteen of the remaining fourteen flats. I may have hurried through that last one today so I could get to writing, but it was just another older gentleman.

  He was not dead on arrival, as the one three floors up was, but came out very much swinging. He must have been in the army or some emergency services, because his muscles were lithe despite their age and deconstruction.

  Even the handsome couple on his floor, some thirty years his junior, were nothing compared to this old-timer. The dog chewed through their ankles in no time while they were still bending down to catch him. In their movements, they looked like they were still trying to pet him.

  Any hope I may have had for survivors is well and truly gone. With my untrained eye (though with almost two weeks’ worth of experience under my belt), I can see that it’s possible some flats may have held out longer than others. On the second floor, one of the Turkish guys ate the other one, presumably when the former went to check on the latter in a proper, neighbourly fashion. It could have been any number of days into this hell. Maybe he had held off until the day before I got down there.

  To think it all took place right under my feet… even now it gives me the creeps. He just wasn’t being as careful as me, I guess. After discovering this, I wondered briefly if I should have gone knocking for each and every one of them in the immediate aftermath, to check on them and see if they were okay.

  Having said that, I didn’t know then what I know now, that the infected were stuck inside until I came to free them. I’m sure that, if there is anyone still out there, that they wouldn’t have taken the risk either.

  I found another method of, temporarily at least, disposing of the bodies. It requires far less gore than chucking them out of the window, and actually is a little easier on my back. It still requires a good bit of lifting, though. What I am doing now is wrapping them in sheets, duvets or blankets from their own homes (I would never use these myself anyway, I think the infection risk is too great).

  Then, I drag them down the stairs to the first floor. That’s where the access to the courtyard is. It makes me feel slightly exposed being out there. That feeling of all eyes on me increases four times over when surrounded on three sides by the backs of the neighbouring buildings. But the horseshoe shape they have is nicely sheltered, and spacious, leaving more than enough room for the bodies. I am considering moving my rainwater collection system down here, but only when I get done with all of the buildings. What I don’t want to happen is to be cut off from all the pots and pans if I somehow attract a load of them down from one of the other buildings, or over the low wall that forms the fourth edge of the courtyard.

  The space over the wall, next door to the courtyard, is an old woodworking site, now completely turned to rubble. It’s waste ground, ringed by the remains of old factory walls with a fence at one end.

  From what I can tell, there are a few, animal-shaped holes that a fox, cat, or even dog could quite easily get through. But not a human with limited mobility, thankfully, and especially not if they have no reason to do so. If I could guarantee that the fences would hold, or even find a way to secure them without being spotted (no easy feat when it is essentially means crossing two hundred yards of open ground), I could eventually grow food down there.

  The courtyard of my building is gravelled, which means no soil, apart from a few tragic-looking planters and a circular patch where some trees are thriving. I’m sure I could work something out, or maybe I’d be lucky and there’d be a whole host of wild tomato seeds germinating down there year on year. Who knows? And it’s that anticipation of the unknown that keeps me up at night now, rather than fear of it.

  Dragging the bodies downstairs has become a bit of a game for me and the dog. He still likes to run rings around me on the stairs, sniffing at the wrapped bundle, tearing at slightly exposed bits.

  It’s morbid, but it is funny to see him wait a flight up, and then come tearing down towards me and my load, ears back and pupils as wide as saucers. I can’t help but laugh when he gets a bit of a finger, or an ear, and gallops triumphantly off.

  He never barks when we play, or when he is chasing me, and for that I’m grateful. He joined me in the courtyard on that first day that I went down. As he burst into it, the first time he had been outside since it all started, the only noise he made was from his powerful legs as they sprinted. He did about eight circuits of the whole space, before dashing from corner to corner, flinging himself over the bushes and trees in the centre. When he came back to me he smashed into my legs and sent me flying. We lay there, sprawled out, panting: him from the exercise, me from all the lifting, shifting and dragging.