Stella the Zombie Killer

Stella the Zombie Killer Part 17

'When was the last time you went a whole day without violence?' said Jared to Hook. They leant against the harpoon, broken glass crunching beneath their boots.

'Couple of days ago,' Hook replied. 'We didn't go out for three days. We just did the garden, read books, cooked.'

It was dark outside, the streetlights cast an intermittent but stark white glow on the rippling mass below them. Most of the lights were still active, their solar panels still functioning three years after the death of most of the people who ever walked beneath them. The bright white dots snaked around the city, disappearing behind unlit buildings and parks, then reappearing again in the distance. From here the city was eternal. Nothing else existed but the streets and the buildings and the parks. And the deads. The noise of their movement was perpetual, natural, like the sound of the sea or the breeze in the trees or the scratching of rodents.

The two shared a bottle of red wine. Three more sat among the legs of the harpoon launcher. Jared wrinkled his nose as he looked out of the window and then held the bottle beneath his nostrils as a scented shield. 'Smells more in the city,' he said. 'There was always a smell in the country but this, this is a stink.'

'It's worse than usual.' Hook gestured to the deads. 'We don't normal have that.'

Jared nodded and took a swig of the wine. The alcohol was acting fast. 'I haven't had a day without violence for four months. It was back in March. Twenty of us in the camp. Nothing happened for a whole day. The scavs came back with nothing to report and no deads came near us.'

'Scavs?'

'Scavengers. Hunter-gatherer parties.'

'Not the nicest nickname.'

'Some of them used to go a bit feral. Out there, alone or in pairs, dealing with...' Jared waved the bottle at the night. 'With whatever they had to deal with. There was a spilt in the camp. No one really trusted them.' He took another swig and then handed the bottle to Hook, who took it and drained it, tilting his head back to let the red liquid slosh down his throat.

'She'll be alright,' said Jared.

Hook gasped as he took the bottle from his lips, the red wine visible at the corners of his mouth. He nodded. 'I know.'

'What you did was good.'

'What I did was save her,' said Hook. 'I know that and she'll realise it too.'

Jared bent to the floor and grabbed the other bottle of wine. He twisted the lid. 'Imagine if all the bottles were still corked - we'd be screwed!' He laughed at his joke. He laughed hard.

'We have cork screws,' said Hook, not joining Jared in his laughter. 'And be quiet.' He nodded at the deads; Jared's barks of laughter had raised a few heads to their window and an eddy in the flow of shoulders and heads could suddenly be seen as they pushed towards the doors.

'They look like solid doors,' said Jared. 'They'll hold.' He peered out of the window onto the deads below and then looked back at Hook. 'Will they hold?'

Hook nodded. 'I wouldn't have gone out there if I didn't think they would.'

They had pulled her in, three pairs of hands trying to ease her as gently as they could back into the museum. They had laid her on the floor and then raised her again as she had groaned in pain from the broken glass. They had lifted her sweat- and blood-drenched body down to the rotunda and laid her on one of Gregor's work tables. She had passed in and out of consciousness as they had borne her like a funeral procession.