Sleep Think Die Read online

  Don’t Look Up

  Carson allowed himself only short, stunted breaths, his body stiff and alert. He ignored the protestations of pain his cramped knees were making, willing his very heartbeat to slow to crawling pace.

  Though corrupt, the creature in the room below warranted a better description than zombie. Zombies have the trademark vacant, stupid stare, the slow, grotesque shuffle that defines the word. Even when they close in on fresh meat their expressions never change, their moronic moans never raise in pitch or fervour. No animation whatsoever passes over their lifeless, pallid faces.

  To Carson, this was the real abomination, here in the centre of this ransacked room.

  He had seen others like it before, the first months back, watching from yet another hiding place and waiting for the moment when he could make an escape. Watching as it hunted down and then made its kill. A kill so appallingly violent that even Carson, a survivor of over a year in this hell on earth, felt his stomach churn, his blood run cold at the sight of it. He had to turn his head away and close his eyes for a moment; he supposed that if nothing else then the depth of his revulsion was a sign that he at least was still human. The memory of that kill, amongst all the others he had witnessed, still woke him from whatever sleep he could snatch, finding his hands clamped tight over his mouth as if acting independently of his brain, in order to stifle the screams.

  Hunted.

  Zombies don’t hunt. They close in, lemming-like, driven by the lust for flesh and blood to tear you limb from limb. They stumble upon their prey, some ancient instinct taking over their otherwise dumb minds and telling them to kill, to devour, to ravage. Then they move on, heedless of the gore and ripped shreds of skin, the slivers of bone in their drooling mouths.

  This creature was different. Oh, it was zombie- like in appearance; its clothes torn, filthy, hanging from it in tatters. The face was pale, shaded grey with corruption and bruising, the cheek bones high, pronounced, so close to the surface of the skin that it was easy to imagine them slicing through and protruding like jagged spikes. That was where the similarity ended.

  The eyes were alive and knowing; glinting, gleaming with evil intelligence. Those eyes did not simply look around; they saw, they understood, they calculated. He had seen more than a dozen of these creatures since his first. Their frame might be that of what was once a man or a woman; might be tall or short, dark or fair or any of a thousand variations the human form can take, but they all shared that look in the eye. That, their greater speed than the average zombie together with the habit they had of pausing in their shuffling gait and cocking their heads as if listening, thinking, was what set them apart. Was what led Carson to christen them Thinkers.

  The Thinker in the room below had once been a man; tall, muscular with a head so closely cropped it was almost bald. It had stopped dead centre of the room and cocked its head to the left as if listening intently. Carson drew in an involuntary breath and held it, praying silently to a God he no longer believed in that it didn’t know he was there, stuffed into the crawl space between roof and ceiling, too afraid to shift position and take the pressure off his agonised knees.

  Broken cupboards lined the wall to one side of the room. They stood like a row of slowly collapsing skeletons, the bones misshapen, dry and splintering, the doors long since ripped off and piled in a heap. A double-door cupboard on the end of the row was in slightly better repair; the top-most hinges of the doors were missing, the bottom ones merely loosened, causing the doors to hang in a semi-open ‘v’ position. Carson had considered it as an option for a hiding place, dismissing the notion almost immediately; it was far too exposed, left no room for escape and worst of all was at ground level. He had used it as a step up to the steel framed crawl space above instead. A lot of the ceiling tiles were missing or broken, leaving parts of the crawl space exposed, but it was by far the better option. Carson knew from bitter experience that zombies rarely look up.

  The Thinker looked up, right at his hiding place. Carson froze; any movement now would be enough to alert it to his presence and he really didn’t want that. More than anything, he didn’t want that.

  It stared upwards for a long time, the greenish tinge in its eyes giving off a dull glow. Then it appeared to reconsider and instead turned its’ attentions to the v-shaped doors of the cupboard.

  Carson didn’t relax by even a fraction.

  He had struggled to find a word to describe the gait of a Thinker. It wasn’t the lumbering shuffle of a zombie, nor was it a full, healthy stride. It was something in between, akin to a hurried limp or a dragging amble. Whatever it might best be called, this Thinker did it now, lurching toward the cupboard with an obvious intent that made Carson grateful that he hadn’t chosen to hide in there after all.

  The Thinker stopped at the doors, directly below him. It cocked its head again and then, almost comically, peered down into the darkness of the cupboard. Then it threw back its head, gave out a low, wet groan and with one hand ripped both doors off at once and with such force that the cupboard rocked wildly, threatening to tip forwards and bury the Thinker beneath it.

  The Thinker seemed to understand this possibility and stepped clumsily back. The rocking slowed, then stopped completely, what was left of the cupboard coming to rest against the wall behind. The Thinker approached it again, inspected the innards of the cupboards and upon finding it empty, directed its gaze upward once more.

  Carson had been right not to relax.

  He had nothing in the form of weaponry on him. He had spent the last of his bullets a week ago, then lost his useless gun whilst climbing a fence in a hurry. He had meant to keep his eyes open for a knife or something else sharp and useful, but he had been forced to spend most of his time since then in hiding. There seemed to be more of this breed of undead around lately. He would have to find out why that was; if he wasn’t ripped apart in the next few minutes, that is.

  The Thinker was evidently taking stock. Carson tried to focus on what he would do if their roles were reversed. He would probably take one of the splintered lengths of wood that had made the cupboard door and use it as a prod, pushing up the remaining ceiling tiles to see what might be hiding up there. He grimaced; no good trying to get inside the Thinker’s brain, that thing was no longer capable of thinking anything remotely human.

  The Thinker stooped to select a jagged length of wood and shoved it suddenly and viciously into one of the ceiling panels.

  Carson felt sick. He had been in a few tight spots before, but none as tight as this. The Thinker moved on, heaving the plank effortlessly upwards to smash through another tile, not even flinching as a cloud of dust and debris fell to cover its upturned face.

  Think Carson; think fast.

  *

  Bumper Scuffs marvelled behind his companions’ back. Lavender Gin walked alongside him, working hard to match his pace, though she would never admit it. Nervous tension emanated from her delicate frame; an anxiety that often made her sharp tongued and tetchy. Bumper often wondered how such a small ball of fury could ever have been given the sweet name of Lavender Gin. He had tried to ask once and had been slapped down for his efforts. He would try again one day, maybe.

  For now, she was not the object of his musing, the two men up ahead were. Bumper watched the impossibly large frame of the aptly named Mad Gasher as he ambled on in far too casual a manner given the circumstances. Alongside him his partner in crime, if such a notion still existed in these largely lawless days, kept up easily. Rumble Strips wasn’t much shorter or less broad than Gasher. Neither man had the build of a runner or a road walker, so it was a constant source of puzzlement and frustration to Bumper that they could not only walk so damn fast but keep it up for so long too. There was no justice in the world; th
at was for sure.

  He walked on, keeping a wary eye about him. Perhaps it was the fact that Gasher and Rumble weren’t the brightest that they could be so relaxed; ignorance is bliss and all that.

  They walked on; Gasher swinging a spiked club in his right hand, Rumble hefting a long rifle he had obtained from who-knew-where across his left shoulder. The dust kicked up at their feet as they walked, giving the impression that their shoes were smoking. Bumper hid a smile at the thought, knowing Lavender would demand to know what was so funny had she seen it.

  They were passing through the remnants of a small town, the buildings decaying where they stood, some of them already crumbling and showing their steel skeletons; bent and twisted like old bones. They had seen no real signs of life, or otherwise, apart from a few fleeting shadows that were gone before they could do anything about it.

  The atmosphere amongst the small crew changed without anyone saying a word. It was the subtlest change of gear, the two men out front at last slowing the pace, the swinging of the club in Gasher’s hand becoming more evenly deliberate. Rumble took the rifle from its resting place on his shoulder and held it two-handed across his chest.

  Beside him, Lavender inhaled a tight little breath, the sudden change in mood notching up her anxious state. Bumper resisted the urge to reassure her, knowing such a gesture was likely to result in injury. Instead he reached into his pocket and brought out his own weapon.

  The hand gun, a Glock 19 he had recently relieved a very dead police officer of, felt reassuring in his grip. In his struggle to survive the officer had expended only three rounds before the meat-eaters closed in on him. When Bumper had prised it out of the officer’s dead hand it had been at least six feet away from the rest of his ravaged torso. Bumper had fired off three more since; that meant there were nine left. Nine precious opportunities to keep breathing for just a little bit longer.

  He wondered what spiteful little surprises Lavender had about her person. For the most part she did her best not to engage in a fight; with so petite a frame, Bumper could hardly blame her. Going at it with the undead was not exactly high on his wish list either. She had developed a knack of hiding very quickly in the most unlikely of places, together with an ability to squeeze into tiny gaps that Bumper would not even be able to get his leg through. She put that to great use whenever it looked like things were about to get messy.

  No, her weapons were more for fighting off the human kind of monster; those they might meet on the road who thought she was easy meat, too weak or defenceless to put up much of a fight. She couldn’t always rely on one of the men to be around to protect her. Necessity being the mother of invention, Lavender had created a variety of home-made weapons that often made Bumper very grateful he had never yet been on the receiving end of one.

  He risked a look at her. Her eyes were everywhere, her pupils dilated, her breathing rapid. He saw her fingering something hidden in the pocket of her ill-fitting jeans. He gripped the gun more tightly.

  “You hear that?” Gasher had stopped dead in his tracks, his voice low. They all stopped in accordance with him, straining to listen.

  It was the faintest of sounds, coming from some way up ahead. Bumper took the lead, suggesting without speaking that they walk on a little further. The others complied; though now they all walked slowly, carefully, looking about them, listening intently.

  They reached the end of the street. The noise had increased, appearing to come from around the corner. It sounded like someone was attempting to shatter something; maybe trying to break in somewhere. Perhaps there was a way station here, tucked in amongst the derelict buildings. That was the only reason anyone broke in anywhere anymore; for supplies.

  They stopped at the corner. Over a year of this had taught them caution; they never knew what an innocent turn in the bend might be concealing. Gasher leaned forward, waving his free hand to indicate the rest of them stay back. A moment later he turned to them,

  “Nothing there,” was all he said.

  Bumper shrugged, “So let’s keep walking,”

  They kept a tight group, the differing strides becoming uniform now, the instinct to stick together kicking in. Lavender held position at the back of the small group, her eyes seeking out the nearest hiding place should the need to bolt arise. The sound grew louder still, its source now unmistakable.

  “Gino’s Gym and Bar,” The sign was still there to be read, in comparatively fresh shades of blue and red. Bumper shoved aside the irrelevant thought that it defeated the object to have a bar in a gym, wondering at his own brain’s capacity for the irrelevant, “What do we think?” he whispered.

  “We think it’s trouble,” Rumble whispered back urgently.

  “Since when do you speak for all of us, or is that the royal ‘we?’” Gasher growled back

  Bumper raised a placatory hand, “Okay listen; not now. Do we find out what’s going on in there, or do we mind our own business and move on?”

  “We move on!” Lavender was barely audible, she kept hopping from foot to foot, the terror in her eyes obvious. Bumper felt a rush of pity for her.

  “Okay, that’s a good shout. We move on,”

  “You sure?” Gasher asked, eyeing the building greedily, “Could be something worth seeing in there,”

  Bumper hesitated. For anyone to make that much noise and risk unwelcome attention had mean there was something worth getting at inside Gino’s. Unless it was one of those weird zombies, of course; in which case going in to find out would just be opening up a whole world of trouble. The thought decided him, “We move on,” he said firmly, “remember our rule; we only get involved if there’s a bona fide human in danger,” He spun on his heel, ready to walk away. Lavender and Rumble fell in behind him.

  “How do we know there’s not?” Gasher asked, unmoving.

  Bumper stopped, “If there was someone in there they’d have made some kind of recognisable sound by now, not just that endless crashing,”

  “Even if it was just a death rattle,” Lavender added bleakly, “there’d have been some other kind of sound.”

  Gasher considered, visibly chewing it over in his mind. Apparently, he decided he agreed, because he set off again wordlessly, club once more swinging with menacing ease at each foot fall.

  There came a scream; not that of a man in the last throes of death. Nor was it that of someone caught in the agonising grip of an undead. If anything, it was closer to a roar of anger; defiant.

  Gasher spun round and ran for the gym, its’ glass doors long since ripped from their hinges and shattered on the ground. He disappeared into the building.

  “Here we go again,” Rumble sighed, darting up the steps behind him. Bumper was about to tell Lavender to go hide when he realised she was already gone. No use trying to find her; if Lavender Gin wanted to be hidden, then hidden she was until she said otherwise.

  His heart sinking, Bumper went after the men.

  *

  The noise was coming from upstairs. By the time Bumper had caught up, both Gasher and Rumble were standing on the top step, listening. Bumper pushed ahead, between the two sweating hulks, “It’s this way,” he murmured, heart pounding.

  They crept along the ruined corridor, trying not to kick debris as they did so and alert it to their presence.

  For it was an ‘it;’ even from this distance the unmistakable stench of corruption filled the air. Bumper wondered what poor bastard was being devoured in the room beyond and if it was even worth trying to rescue him. As if in answer there came another scream, followed by a renewed, frenzied pounding.

  “Okay, let’s get to it,” Gasher said, evidently tired of the softly-softly approach. He straightened up, his posture aggressive, shouldering his way to the front. Following him, Bumper wished he had the same nerve. Rumble took up the rear, allowing himself enough room to shoulder the rifle and fire should the need arise.

  The room was shattered. Every last scrap of furniture, every fixture and fitting, was damaged beyond rep
air. A colossal zombie figure stood with its back to them, seemingly intent on something above its head. It was waving a large, splintered plank of wood about as if it was nothing more than a twig, stabbing it into what remained of the ceiling.

  Bumper craned his neck upwards, in search of the zombie’s quarry. A man crouched overhead, balanced upon one remaining tile in the ceiling’s cramped crawl space. A dead man soon, if one of them didn’t do something about it.

  “Oy, oy,” Gasher said softly, menacingly. Bumper shook his head, convinced the man had a secret death wish; either that or he was just completely insane. He was wearing a grin when the zombie turned around.

  The grin faded fast. All three of them were struck into silence at the look in the creature’s eye. Even Gasher paused for thought, giving voice to it with the utterance, “Fuck me, this one still looks like there might be a man in there,”

  Bumper felt his knees go weak. The creature was taking their measure, sizing them up; assessing them.

  Something was very wrong here. Your normal, everyday zombie just went for you, no thinking required. It launched itself at you and you either died or you didn’t. What the hell was going on here?

  Its gaze flicked across them, settled on Rumble holding the rifle aloft, and made him its first target.

  Or would have. Even as Bumper was shakily raising his pistol, Gasher stepped forward, two-handed, vice like grip brandishing his spiked club with menace most definitely aforethought, and swung.

  There was a sickening squelch as the spikes drove home, one of them embedded so deeply that it popped out of an eye socket, sending one weird green eye lolling down the shredded face. Bumper stepped back, sickened, as Gasher wrenched the club free and struck again, this time directly down on top of the creature’s skull.

  The zombie fell to its knees, the top of its head now nothing more than a mass of ruined flesh. Wasting no time, Gasher pulled a hunting knife from the pocket of his combats and stepped forward. He shoved the knife deep into the back of its neck and sliced through with vicious efficiency.