This Place Is Dead Pt. II

The bright sunlight shone upon Greywood Courtyard with a resolute gaze.

Polly Wade stared down from the stairwell of 13A. In her white-knuckle grip, she held her drill, its battery charged. Impossible to tell where the grass ended and the concrete began. There were so many. A hundred, if not more. They’d occupied the quad for the better part of a week. Mrs Tyler’s assertion that they’d leave once they got bored had turned out to be false. Like most of what came out of her mouth. Stupid old bat.

Her footsteps echoed as she made her way down to the ground floor. Polly put on her game face. Mrs Tyler would no doubt put up a fight again, but this time she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’d had three days to stew on it, maybe she had come around in the meantime. Besides, why the hell didn’t she want someone to get rid of them for her? It’s not like Polly asked her to help out. If fate had reversed the roles, Polly would have welcomed — with open arms — someone with a plan.

She had a pair of swimming goggles pulled down over her eyes, so the world around had a bluish tint. A bandanna, tied off around the back, covered both mouth and nose. Washing up gloves went up to her elbows — gardening gloves would have been better, but that was all Polly had. And she wore a denim jacket and denim jeans. A fashion faux-pas, no doubt, but it was the toughest material she owned. Polly even tried to bite through the sleeve of her jacket, to test it. To her satisfaction, she’d not succeeded.

Down past the third floor. Past the second. Past the first. All empty, no signs of a struggle or distress. No bloodstains marred the whitewashed walls, no dried-black splotches stained the tiles. Not even a single doormat lay askew. If you’d been oblivious to the outside world, you might not have noticed anything wrong.

Down to the ground floor. Polly pushed the stairwell door open and held it. She paused her breaths and listened. If the infected had compromised the safety of 13A, it would be most obvious here.

No scuffled footsteps. No sandpaper gasps or groans. No wet, ripping sounds. No hungry growls.

Silence.

Polly stepped out into the hallway. To the right lay the front door, barricaded with an assortment of cupboards and chairs. Darell had covered the glass with cardboard and newspaper, so the ones in the street couldn’t see inside. So they couldn’t spot a meal and get agitated.

To the left, the rear door opened into the courtyard. But, of course, Polly wouldn’t dare to open that. She wouldn’t even go near it — they’d rip the door off its hinges to get to her. Would punch through the double-paned glass for the taste of flesh. And that would compromise 13A, sure as hell. Polly crept to the corner and peered around. Bodies writhed up against the glass. The golden sunlight flickered with the movements, the shadow of a snakepit on the wall.

She ducked back around. Her heart fluttered, the tremble of a frightened hummingbird. Polly gulped in one breath, then another. She headed to the door marked ‘1’. Margot Tyler’s apartment.

Polly rapped her knuckles against the door. A fine line to walk — loud enough for the older woman to hear her. Quiet enough so that the horde of cannibals outside didn’t.

A thump from the other side of the door.

Footsteps whispered against the floor.

The door thudded.

Polly yelped and leapt back.

She’d died. Somehow, in the space of 72 hours, Mrs Tyler had died and come back as one of them. And now—

The door swung open to reveal Mrs Tyler, knife in hand. Her white — almost translucent — hair stuck off from her head in crushed curls. She wore an apron stained with brown smears. “Get inside!” She whispered. She urged Polly along with a gesture of her hand. As if she tugged at an invisible rope. “Come on, come on!”

Polly wasted no time, despite this being the warmest welcome she’d ever received from Margot. She brushed passed the woman, who shut the door with a gentle thump. Mrs Tyler bolted the chain across and replaced the chair beneath the handle. That explained the shudder.

Margot turned to face her, countenance a rictus of terror and exhaustion. “I haven’t slept since they got here,” she said. The knife trembled in her fingers, pointed at Polly. She guessed Margot didn’t mean it as a threat, merely as protection against the teeth of the world. “All. Night. Long. That moaning, moaning, moaning…”

“So you’ll let me use your balcony, then?” Polly added: “Mrs Tyler?”

Margot stepped forward, knife jutted outwards. Like a jouster sans horse. “Yes, yes! Just get rid of them, please! For my sanity’s sake!”

A bit late for that, Polly almost said. She bit down on her tongue. She nodded. “Mm-hm.”

Margot continued. “I can’t take another sleepless night! When I’m awake, all I can hear are their groans, and when I’m asleep—” she shuddered “—I dream about them.” Her eyes widened, the veins of the sclera throbbed red and angry, the blues of the irises watery. “Their hands.” Her voice dropped down a register. “Their teeth.”

“Stay here.” Polly gestured with the drill. “And guard the door. This might get noisy.”

Mrs Tyler clutched the knife with both hands. “But you’ll get them? All of them?”

Polly grunted an affirmation.

“O-okay. I’ll do it!”

“Good.”

The old bat turned and faced the door. As if the infected were right outside and the wood might splinter at any moment. Polly smirked and frowned. “Boomers,” she whispered, under her breath.

And then she headed for the veranda.

She pulled the curtain aside — a gaudy red and orange affair — then opened the door. It swung open without so much as a squeak. Polly stepped out onto the balcony, the sunshine warm and right upon her too-pale skin. Ground floor though it was, Margot’s balcony jutted out several feet above the courtyard. A metal railing ran around the perimeter.

Even so, a cold ripple racked her body as all those eyes shifted to face her.

Bloodied faces. Torn flesh. Scarred skin. Ragged clothes. Some missed limbs. Others had suffered burns. All had vacant stares, eyes glazed and white. Their jaws — those who still had them, at any rate — hung loose, as if in deep surprise. At the sight of her, teeth began to grin the empty air — like cows who chew the cud.

And then, the throng looked away.

Movement on the opposite side of the courtyard, on the lowest balcony of 13C. A man with a cricket bat, a scarf tied around his face. He waved at her with his bludgeoning device. Polly returned the gesture. More motion, to the sides. People crept out onto their verandas. An assortment of weapons in their hands, a variety of armours upon their bodies.

Polly smiled.

Teamwork.

She raised the drill and pulled the trigger. The bit whirled into life. A task she should have done whilst Darell was still alive. Hell, they all should have helped him. His blood stained everyone’s hands. They shouldn’t have left it all up to him. And now they’d suffered the consequences. But together, they could take back Greywood Courtyard once more. Together.

She squinted into the sunlight.

“Time to perform some full-frontal lobotomies.”