A Not So Hollow Heart

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“Can’t you recognise a zombie when you see one?”

Carter responded to Mason’s question by extending a middle finger skyward, but the crude gesture was not what chilled Mason’s blood. The longer Mason stared at the raised digit, paralysed with frosty, Arctic horror, Carter’s accompanying expression of a companionable f**k off glower slid away to puzzlement.

“You okay, Mace?”

Jolted by the question, Mason stammered out, “S-sure.” To cover his momentary shock, he used the fingers of his left hand to form the shape of a gun, and pointed, pretending to shoot off Carter’s middle digit. When Mason blew at the tip of his make-believe weapon, Carter glanced at his still-erect finger, expression twisted, and made another rude sign, two digits, before getting back on with the job. Either he decided he was mistaken by Mason’s reaction, or to mind his own business.

Mason cast a silent thank you to the universe, unable to find the words to explain the lie: he was far from fine. Someone crawled over his grave in response to his careless words. The dead desecrated someone’s resting place. Damn, but his casual comment echoed his last remark to Antonio before a son-of-a-b***h-walking-dead-man tore Antonio out of Mason’s life way back during the first days of the rising. The recollection gave Mason a shiver.

Can’t you recognise a zombie when you see one? What a last f*****g thing to say to the man he loved.

Mason—Mace to many—gave himself a mental shake. Everyone needed to remain vigilant. No one could afford to be sloppy. While combating tumultuous emotions, Mason fought to get his head back in the game. His continued existence and others might depend on him. He put more value on the survival of the group, too aware of how expendable his own sorry life was.

More melancholy. Tired of self-pity, he shook it off. Christ, he bored himself. Best not to give memories thinking room. Best to concentrate on his surroundings.

Carter, already in action, swung the scimitar Mason coveted. The other man removed the skull from one of the living dead though there didn’t appear to be much undead life remaining in the one he selected. Better safe than sorry, and Mason would have words with anyone who questioned the motto.

A few still debated the act of elimination, calling the deed desecration. Not surprising. Many folks disputed whether God in his wisdom had a plan for the survivors. If one believed God existed, maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t, but if this—to make people into abominations—was an ‘arrangement,’ Mason wanted no part, other than to bring it to an end. He’d gladly ‘chat’ with any deity who caused an act so monstrous with intention.

Fortunately, many agreed—for every undead they stilled, they made the world safer, and they laid a creature who had once been a person to rest. Most perceived the act as a kindness to both the living and the dead. No one knew if any spark of humanity remained in these beings—consciousness—but if he ever turned, Mason wanted a swift mercy. Whether he retained awareness or not, he hoped someone would be as kind—to finish him, fast. He struggled to imagine a worse hell than existing trapped in a decaying shell while knowing he killed. Maybe the ‘plan’—if such existed—was for those left alive to learn the true meaning of compassion, but Mason wouldn’t hold his breath.

A lithe man with the nickname of Skit appeared at his side. If not for clearing his throat, Mason might have jumped, taken Skit’s head. Good thing Skit had learned to make his presence known—as many fresh recruits quickly did, the man had suffered more than a few close encounters of friendly fire when new to the job.

“Plenty of petrol in the cars. There might be more inside.”

Mason nodded approval. At least if the stores were empty, the excursion proved worthwhile. They had the outbuildings to explore last. The next task: secure the perimeter.

“Can you believe this place?” Skit didn’t hang around to hear a reply. He sked- or skit-addled before Mason came up with anything to say, not that Mason made any claims to be the most talkative of men. He appreciated the comment, though, and shared a glance with Carter.

Dirt field. Huge tent. Two long, narrow single-story buildings with curved roofs. Walls covered with washed-out posters. Bright paint, now faded, and…cages. The place resembled the remnants of a circus. No. More similar to cast-off relics of a music hall act based on a carnival as seen in a black-and-white horror movie. The sort where people paid to enter a tent housing all sorts of abominations and pickled deformities. A silent, secret WTF circled his brain.

“A drove’s been through here.”

Mason didn’t argue with Joe Talbot, who sidled into view on the far side of Carter. The scuffed ground supported the theory. Should the outbuildings prove as clear as the main, it left them to deal with the few bodies on the ground, and those didn’t appear to be much of a threat. Mason had seen this kind of thing before when a drove overran a compound—so called because a sufficiently large group stampeded over the living with the same result panicked cattle engendered. Those not trampled fled or died and, if bitten in the melee, often metamorphosed. Any zombies crippled too badly in the scuffle to stand, or sometimes to crawl, conveniently lolled around for a speedy dispatch. The same appeared to be the case here. More than one of the undead lay crushed into the ground, unable to jerk free. The condition of those remaining made clearing a site easier, at least.

Sharp and blunt instruments would do to silence this lot. Guns were difficult to come by, ammunition more so in England where armaments had never been a major issue. They raided gun clubs and farms, anywhere that might use weapons whenever they found them, but often others had got there before them. Another reason they used such arsenal sparingly was sound drew the polluted—a term coined and which fitted. Mason didn’t care whether the hapless souls suffered from a disease or the wrath of God. Neither did it matter to him if the devil’s sense of humour was rife in the world—the dead walked. They were tainted. To call them polluted was as fine an expression as any.

“Dead man crawling.” Carter pointed to a scrambling cadaver. Mason took care of it. “Dead woman rolling.” Carter put her down himself.

“Dead man twitching.”

Sorely tempted to tell Carter to shut the hell up, Mason bit hard on his tongue. Carter’s routine grew irritating real fast, though Mason understood the need for such dark humour in this new world, especially while putting the already dead to rest. Carter’s patter still made him shake his head.

To hold the thrashing corpse in place, Mason pressed on the skull with the heel of his boot and swung his axe. The bloke’s neck had already suffered severe damage, and Mason had perfected his swing. One blow and the body no longer twitched.

“Dead man…Shiiiiittt.”

Mason sped over to Carter, who stood beside one of the cages—a trailer designed to hitch to a vehicle for towing. The wheels and undercarriage supported the base high off the ground. Mason moved closer. The floor height lay level with his waist. The bars had faded, flaked green paint. Straw and worse littered the base, punctuated with a couple of bowls, which likely once contained food and water. Where he expected to spot a starved and dying, or dead, animal, there lay an emaciated man.

“I ain’t f*****g going in there to silence him.”

“We silence them all.”

Carter shot him a contemptuous look. “He’s caged. He’s not gonna hurt anyone.”

“You have a point.” Still Mason dithered. No way to tell whether zombies retained any awareness; regardless, to leave this one behind, trapped and…hungry seemed cruel.

He’s not my concern.

Inwardly Mason sighed. If this creature wasn’t his problem, it…he wasn’t anyone’s—the same kind of thinking which had been wrong with the world before everything went to hell. He silently gave himself the talk of being unable to save everyone. Fought daily to save himself and nothing made things right. Too much had happened to him, to the entire planet as far as they were aware, ever to compensate. Still, he had to hold together and do his job. What other reason was there to get out of bed each day?

“Nope. Can’t leave him.”

“Well, good luck finding a key.” Carter tugged on a hefty padlock. “We can break this, but…” He didn’t need to say more. Such an act would cause a fair amount of noise. The commotion might be ample enough to draw any remaining zombies from adjacent fields.

“Maybe…” Mason glanced at the axe in his hand, hefted it, and extended the tool between the bars of the cage, trying to reach the prone body. Might manage but the angle meant he likely lacked sufficient force to sever the brain stem. “Something like a spear would do a better job.”

“Sorry. I’m all outta javelins.”

“Smart-arse.”

“Why d’you think they caged one of the polluted like this? Kept it?”

“f****d if I know.” Why did humans do half the things they did? He had no clue why many picked odd choices now, let alone back when the world made a sort of sense. Neither did he know why so few had learned anything from the world changing. Still, there might be several reasons to use a caged polluted—one being a threat to keep other humans in check—but he didn’t want to give Carter nightmares. For all his rough exterior, Carter was young.

“Poor sod.”

Mason stared at Carter, surprised by the slight quiver in his voice.

“We’re all poor sods. The living and dead alike.” Futile point to make, and Mason had already talked enough for one morning. Tongue tired applied—he didn’t like to converse these days, but he kept forgetting, falling into old habits, acting as if every day was another normal event in his life, although, much as he detested it, severing the heads of walking corpses constituted a usual occurrence these days.

The poor sod in the cage moaned. Carter gulped. “We entice him near to the side, the tip of my sword will do the trick.”

Not a pleasant idea, but…logical. Easiest way would be to sacrifice a few drops of blood. Not relishing the notion, and with thoughts of infection prevailing, Mason called out. “Come on, boy. Come and get the fresh meat, boy.”

“Ewwwwww.” Carter grimaced. The corpse twitched but struggled to rouse itself. Mason and Carter stood staring through the bars, Mason casting his gaze about to make sure they remained safe. They shouldn’t stand here much longer.

“Blood will tempt him over here quicker.” Carter echoed Mason’s thoughts.

“And you called my idea ewww-worthy. Sorry, but I’m not slicing skin to put down one zombie.”

“Not saying you should.” Carter’s tone suggested he also wouldn’t volunteer anytime soon.

Mason scanned their little corner of the world, not about to have more active zombies creep up on them while they debated what to do with this sorry one. “Better ideas?”

“We should give it—”

“Wa…ter.”

“Did you…” Mason jerked his head around and broke off as he accepted Carter’s lips didn’t move, and his gaze had gone wide. Mason peered into the enclosure, meeting the sobering vision of a gaunt face. Cracked lips parted, splitting with the effort. Circles around the eyes appeared so dark, for a second in the shadowy light, they gave the illusion of empty sockets.

“Wat-…pl-…” The words didn’t come fully formed, but didn’t need to, the translation simple: Water, please.

Fucking H! This was no corpse. The unfortunate man in the cage lived.