What Once Was a Curse

The apocalypse causes strange things to happen.

"This is the best you've got for us?" asked the brawny man next to me.

"What are you complaining about?" I asked, looking up at him. "Only one main way in, which we can defend easily, with the big window being a nice shooting port. How bad could it be to defend?"

The third person in our little group grunted. "Also looks like there's a bit of food left over. Maybe it'll work for us. At least for a bit."

The fourth and final person with us nodded. "Doesn't need to be permanent. Just to give us a bit to check Tommy's wound."

The first guy, Tommy, put a hand to his stomach. "I'll be fine. Maybe we can go a bit longer, find something better."

I shook my head. "We can't go much further. Going to that castle was probably the worst thing we could've done. We're lucky it was only a gunshot that got you."

"Friggin' crazies," said the third person, Amara. "We didn't offer them any trouble. So why were they shooting at us?"

"People do strange things during these times," said the fourth person, Sam. "Look, regardless of how good it is, it'll stop Z's until you're in better shape Tommy. Chris, get him in there and patch him up."

"Sure thing boss," I said. "Tommy, come on in. Sam, Amara, watch the door for now. Last thing we need is Z's while I'm fixing Tommy here up."

Something clattered in the nearby alleyway. I immediately raised my weapon, an old spear I'd stolen out of a display case at the British Museum. It was stolen to begin with, so was I really committing a crime?

What the hell happened? Three weeks ago, everything was fine. Then somebody got bit by another person who was acting crazy. Then that guy died, only to wake up in a hospital morgue. That guy got out, bit a nurse, they went on to infect everybody in the hospital, and now it was bedlam wherever you looked.

And England was supposed to be nice this time of year.

Still, beggars can't be choosers, and it seemed most were beggars these days. Except those assholes who had a castle. Bastards.

Amara looked over at me. "When was the last time you slept?"

I shrugged. "When the dead start to rise, things like regular sleep schedules aren't too important, are they?"

"Quit being a dumbass," called Tommy. "You and I are both probably gonna pass out. You've taken watch, what, four times? Fix me up then we'll both crash for a few hours."

"But the entrance-" I started.

Sam had already grabbed his preferred weapon, an old halberd he'd taken out of a museum at the start of this, and was standing at guard near the door. He turned to face me. "If anything gets past me, you'll know soon enough to wake up. That is if Amara doesn't blow it's head off."

Amara, in response, checked the clip in her Glock, then started rooting around the store for whatever foodstuff might be left over. While she was rooting around the remains of the shelves inside, she shouted over to us, "Gun's only for when Sam inevitably screws up."

"Like I'm gonna mess up that bad ya' gun nut," Sam shot back.

"Both of you shut up for a minute," I said. "If I mess this up even a bit then Tommy's gonna have a really bad time."

Tommy coughed once. I looked over his wounds. We'd been lucky the jackasses who were holding that castle didn't have a ton of firearm training, otherwise we'd probably have died. As it stood, only Tommy had taken a serious injury, a gunshot to the left side of his abdomen. It didn't hit any vital organs, or else he'd probably already have died from it.