Can zombies run?

Garry looked up from the TV with a resigned sigh.
It had finally happened then. He couldn’t say that he was wholly surprised. Surprised by the exact details of the probable extinction level event but not by the fact that one existed. Once something really bad had happened to you it was gratifyingly simple, even a little comforting, to accept that other really bad things could happen as well. Garry had long since lost the feeling that things would probably be alright in the end without him actually having to do anything. It seemed to Garry that most people seemed to have an unshakeable faith that things would be “ok” in the end somehow or other. Garry no longer had the luxury of this kind of thinking. His basement was stocked with canned foods and bottled water.
He was pleased with the canonical nature of the impending apocalypse. No airborne toxins or melting icecaps. No meteors from outer space colliding with the planet or computer-malfunction-induced nuclear war. No, ZOMBIES! Of course, no one on the channels Garry flipped through was calling them zombies. It was “a fast-acting hitherto unidentified virus” or some such baloney. Whatever they were trying to euphemise it as it was pretty obvious from the helicopter-shot footage beginning to be shown.
Sickly grey flesh, shambling gait, outstretched arms – all your classic zombie signifiers. The footage was shot from a helicopter quite a long way away but Garry though he saw an arm blasted away from one of the ambulant corpses by zealous soldiers. The corpse seemed to glance down in incomprehension at the absence then simply carried on its hunt for fresh meat.
“Can zombies run?” – that was always the big question that divided aficionados of the undead. Your classic 70’s Romero zombies never ran. They just shambled along and got their targets by weight of numbers and an unrelenting sense of purpose. Zombies never seemed to feel the need to take a break. More modern zombies, on the other hand, would run and jump, attacking seemingly careful human survivors from unexpected angles.
Soon we’d see which version was correct thought Garry. Not that it really made much difference to him. As a crip in a wheelchair it didn’t have much bearing on his survival chances. “Can zombies manage anything more than a gentle slope?” was a more relevant question for him. Whether they walked or ran he imagined they wouldn’t be too troubled by an incline. In which case he was a goner.
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Garry leant back in his chair and turned his attention to the television. They were still broadcasting but the bulletin was beginning to look less professional, more cobbled together. From what he could see on the screen the cities were beginning to be overrun. Here in the country he would be safe for a while longer but zombie lore made it clear that everybody got discovered eventually.
His brother opened the living room door, came in and closed it firmly and deliberately.
As hard as it was to imagine that anyone would be pleased at the thought of impending zombie apocalypse, his brother was doing a good job of looking smugly self-satisfied. Over the course of long, smoky nights together this was exactly the kind of thing that he had predicted. He may well be going to die horribly but he was going to die horribly knowing he had been proven right. It made a difference somehow.
“When there’s no more room in hell...” smirked Jason, “What did I tell you, dude?” Since this had all started he had obviously got changed so as to be combat ready. Orange-tinted shooting glasses worn with a black balaclava, a waistcoat with more pockets than you could ever use and baggy combat shorts covering pale, skinny legs. He looked ridiculous.
He scanned the room through narrowed, suspicious eyes, made a note of the exits (the door he came in through) and calculated possible zombie hidey holes.
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They watched the TV in silence for a few minutes. They both knew what was not being said.
Garry spoke first –
“It’s ok. I’ve got supplies for weeks. They’ll take ages to find me here. There’s always a safe spot somewhere, somewhere zombie-free where the uninfected congregate. You go and find that...”
“Won’t do it, dude.”
“Don’t be daft! There’s no point us both dying. On your own you’ve got a chance with your survival skills.” Garry thought he could bring his brother round to his viewpoint with flattery. He was very proud of his “survival skills”. Garry wasn’t quite sure that a Duke of Edinburgh Award(Bronze) actually counted as “survival skills”.
“WON’T DO IT, DUDE.” Jason wasn’t hugely articulate at the best of times but at the moment seemed unable to say form any language beyond those four words. “WON’T. DO . IT.DUDE.”
“Take a deep breath! If we stay together we will die together. Face facts! I can’t run! My legs don’t bloody work. I’m a sitting duck.”
Garry was starting to understand where Jason was coming from. His brother was younger but had always looked out for him. Pushing him round the garden in the kid’s chair, taking on Darren Briggs who was older and big for his age anyway in the playground, including him automatically in anything going on. Leaving him now would feel like betrayal.
Garry didn’t like the thought of dying, brain-crazed ghouls feasting on his innards etc, but he did fancy a bit of a rest. He was only 23 but he felt knackered already. He wasn’t, by default, a noble guy but his brother had been good to him. He would like to repay him.
Jason was visibly trying to put his emotions together and find some words. They came eventually but there was no flow –
“We’re brothers! That’s ...i..i...mportant. They don’t ... have brothers. We do. That makes us different...better. We have to stand for....summat or we may as well be one of those flesh chomping bastards.”
Garry couldn’t argue with his logic but was suspicious that this speech was just quoted verbatim from some zombie flick that Jason had seen. It could have been emotion making him stumble over his words or it could have been him trying to remember what the actor had actually said. He flipped through his mental database of the zombie genre but nothing jumped out.
“Jason, don’t make me tell you again! Do you want me to get out of this chair and kick your arse?”
This was one of his regular gags. He could shuffle a couple of yards but arse kicking was out of the question. Now had been the wrong time to make it and the sudden reminder of what he was crushed his bravado. He didn’t want to hold his brother back. That bit was true and he could say it to his brother any manner of ways. It was clear that the smart move was to leave him behind...
The rest of it was a big lie though, however forcefully he tried to say it. He clearly wouldn’t be ok on his own. The cellar might be full of supplies but he would break his neck if he attempted the steps on his own. Slight flaw in the plan there
Truth was he was scared. Scared of dying. Scared of dying alone. Scared of dying alone and in terrible agony. At different times over the last few years if he’d been given the choice of just going to sleep and not waking up he’d probably have taken it but this was a different proposition. This was going to hurt. A lot.
Jason was not a sensitive guy but he knew what his brother was doing. They both knew. He couldn’t leave his brother. He may as well kill him himself. He knew it would be tough like this but he also knew instinctively that there was no other way.
The conversation ground to a halt. They’d reached a decision without having to go through all the loops. Jason didn’t want to make Garry say it and Garry loved him for it.
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“So what are we going to do then?” Garry was happy to defer strategic decisions to his brother. This scenario had probably played out in his head hundreds of times.
“We need firepower. That much is obvious”. Jason had a lethal looking collection of knives but Garry had no intention of getting close enough to anything he could use it on. The pellets from his air pistols would do no damage.
Garry had a sudden idea.
“Do you remember that Dad kept a shotgun in the shed when we were kids? He used it to scare foxes away from the yard or summat.”
“I remember it but I’ve not seen it in years. Do you think it might still be there? Even if it was still there it would be all rusted up by now, I bet.”
“Have you got a better idea? Can’t hurt to look. It’s not dangerous outside yet.”
Garry was right. Considering what was happening in other places, their little spot on the map was strangely calm. It was usually peaceful up here but it seemed strangely quiet now.
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Jason crept outside into the yard. There was a paved area just outside the kitchen door then 30 or 40 yards of lawn and then the shed. He slammed the back door shut. It clattered on its hinges and made Jason jump. Embarrassed by how quick he was to scare he tried to set an expression of steadfast determination on his face.
The back garden was quiet but then it usually was. The house was set a little way back from the road. Depending on how you happened to be feeling at the time the garden was either “spookily quiet” or “normally quiet”.
Plumping for “normally quiet” Jason began to relax a little and set off across the lawn. He contemplated doing commando rolls across the grass. He would have loved an opportunity but even he couldn’t quite justify them right now. If he was going to look out for him and Garry he would have to be responsible.
The outside world was going to hell on the telly but here everything was unchanged. Peaceful and harmonious. The clean, fresh fragrance from the roses wafted across his nostrils. He sat down at the garden table and surveyed the hillsides that surrounded him. He’d never really appreciated just how pretty this village really was. He didn’t really do “pretty”.
His uncharacteristic moment of reverie was interrupted by the squeak of the gate. In shuffled Terry, their postie for as long as anyone could remember.
“Morning Tel! Have you seen the bloody n...”. Jason’s cheery greeting died in his throat. It was clearly Terry but not Terry at the same time. All the accoutrements of Terry the postie were present – heavy looking bag, cheap looking mirror sun-glasses, trousers kept in check by bicycle clips. But it wasn’t Terry. His skin was grey and waxy and the whites of his eyes were now red. Not too mention the blood and goo dripping from his teeth. Terry had obviously been collecting as well as delivering already that morning.
Jason knew what he had to do but it was Terry...Terry. Birthday cards and Christmas presents from foreign relatives. Jason had fantasised about slaying zombie hordes but it had never involved anyone he had actually known before. He’d looked forward to this moment a thousand times but the simple joy of zombicide was now denied to him. He used to play with Terry’s kids.
Terry began to shuffle towards him. While he scanned the scene for a potential weapon he absentmindedly noticed that these zombies couldn’t run. Terry was getting closer but not quickly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a muddy spade leaning against the wall. That would have to do.
He began to edge towards it until it was within reach. It felt firm and reassuring in his hand. He advanced toward Terry and swung as hard as he could.
Terry couldn’t even manage a look of undead surprise as he took the full force of shovel head in his face. Jason was surprised how soft bone actually was as shards of white and bloody meat splashed across the lawn. Terry collapsed to the floor in a heap.
Jason rushed to the shed and went in. It was dark and smelt of peat. If he hadn’t felt vulnerable and trapped it would have been quite nice but he was scared and pumped full of adrenalin. The tiny space was full of all kinds of junk – a bicycle wheel here, unused plant pots there and an upturned wheelbarrow in the corner. Hanging by nails on the wall was what Jason was looking for.
The shotgun was old but didn’t look too rusty. He grabbed it off the wall and inspected it. He didn’t really know what he was looking for. He’d come in here when he was younger and fingered the gun surreptitiously but had no real idea if it was any good or not. What was the best kind of firearm for offing the undead, anyway? He suspected it wasn’t this. Not having another choice he grabbed the double barrel along with a box of cartridges he found on a cluttered work surface.
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Garry wondered what was going on outside. He’d peeked in the shed but not ever been inside. Garden sheds were not designed to be wheelchair accessible.
He was reassured that Jason would be beside him in whatever was going to happen. He was still pretty sure that they would die and he felt guilty for making things harder for his brother but he was glad that there was going to be someone looking out for him.
He tried to think of someway that he could repay his brother but nothing sprung to mind. He knew his brother wanted his Pixies t-shirt or his samurai sword but physical things seemed a bit pointless now.
He racked his brains and finally thought of something his brother would appreciate – a classic death line. If he could think of something defiant and witty to say just at the moment the zombies sunk their teeth into his flesh his brother would appreciate it safe in the knowledge that his brother was going out with the right attitude at least. As long as he was within earshot and conscious, of course. That would give Jason some comfort as he went. If only Garry could think of something appropriate and then remember to say it. Neither were givens but he would try.
The classic line was Day of the Dead’s “Choke on me!” and Garry couldn’t really think of anything to compare – “I hope my genetic blood disorder poisons you!” - too much of a mouthful. It would be terrible to forget your line at the vital moment and writing it on the back of your hard would defeat the object somewhat. “Eat my shit and die!” was a bit better, shorter anyway, but if zombies would happily eat your spleen then they probably wouldn’t be put off by human excrement. They weren’t gourmets. Garry suspected his actual final words would be some pathetic and futile beg for mercy but he would try to think up some more anyway.
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Outside Terry was still twitching. Jason kept a careful eye on him as he edged back toward the house. He knew enough about these things to know he had to take care of Terry for good. Any attempt at mercy would inevitably backfire tragically. That was how these things worked. Problem was he wasn’t actually sure what he should do to “kill” Terry for the second time.
Zombie lore was kind of hazy about how to actually disable a zombie permanently. Most of the time people just wanted to slow the zombie down just long enough to escape. A volley of bullets would usually suffice. Trouble was Jason intended to stay here for a while.
Terry was moving just a little, arms flailing gently in the sunlight. He was no danger to Jason right now but, presumably, quite soon things would be very different. Jason felt as though he ought to devise some devious way of finishing off Terry but nothing came to mind. He was ashamed by his lack of ingenuity but reached again for the shovel. He still had no real idea what to do but he guessed that separating the head from the body would work. You never see a headless zombie, do you?
He placed one foot on Terry’s undulating chest, raised the shovel as though he was about to dig into soil, turned it through 90° and thrust it down as hard as he could. It took some more thrusts and some back and forth twisting but before too long there was a separate head and torso seeping ashy blood onto the grass.
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Garry was waiting for him in the lounge. The TV had stopped entirely. The screen was just static and white noise.
“Right, you stay where you are and I’ll go down to the cellar and stock up.” He pointed towards the large rucksack he was holding.
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The cellar light was still working and Jason flicked it on. Obviously there was a compromise to be made between what he could comfortably carry and what they could need. It would perhaps be more sensible to hole up in the house but he knew that they’d eventually become easy pickings for something unless they were a bit more mob-handed. He wasn’t sure where they would go but that was a small detail. A destination always presented itself. That was how zombie stories worked.
He loaded some bottled water into the rucksack and then filled the rest up with tins of stuff. Tins were resilient but so heavy. The bag was already heavy in his hand. The thought crossed his mind that he’d be better off without Garry. These rations would go twice as far for a start. He thought about it for a moment but he couldn’t really imagine it as a serious possibility. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to help Garry, more that he couldn’t really imagine any another way.
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Garry watched his brother lug the rucksack into the room. It may as well have been full of bricks, it looked that heavy.
“What are we going to do? You can’t carry the rucksack and handle the gun at the same time! Jason?”
“I’m not handling the gun – you are.”
Garry gulped. He’d never even held a gun in his life. This was precisely the kind of thing that Jason would consider himself better equipped for, would relish doing even. He had to admit that it made a kind of sense – he would struggle to keep hold of the rucksack. It wouldn’t work on his back and on his lap would just make him vulnerable.
“I’ve never shot a gun before. I...I...I don’t know if I can do it...”
“It’s easy. Point it at zombies, shoot zombies, reload, shoot more zombies. It’s not brain surgery, dude. Well, I suppose it is in a way but you know what I mean.”
Garry saw this was the only way. This was a way he could help. Pull something slightly like his weight. He wasn’t going to stop working on the last words though - “I hope my innards give you indigestion!”
That settled Garry inspected the gun gingerly while Jason gathered up stuff they would need – no room for a change of clothes but down jackets would be useful, Garry’s tablets from upstairs, phones and some random toiletries. Jason also grabbed some money, his keys and mobile. Logically they would be no use whatsoever but he couldn’t just leave them to whatever...
In ten minutes they were ready to go. They both looked at the house they had lived in for so many years. Garry thought he should say something. He took a breath and marshalled his thoughts.
Jason beat him to it -
“Chuffing hell! You should have seen Terry the postie go for me in the yard. I chopped that mother down good and proper. Right let’s go, cripple”
Out the front door and down the garden path they went. Once on the deserted main road Jason handed Garry the shotgun and perched the box of shells on his lap. He cradled the gun like an Appalachian sitting on his porch at sundown. Jason hoisted the rucksack onto his shoulders. Thankfully it was a bit more manageable worn properly and with the belt across his belly.
The road into the village was slightly downhill. Trees lined and overhung the path on either side. It was fresh but not too cold yet. A slight breeze ruffled their hair.
Jason guided Garry onto the road and set off. No need to stay on the kerb today. The slope started to take them away and Jason rode on the back of a wheelchair like he was scooting on a shopping trolley.
They were both scared. They knew they were probably going to die but they were doing something. Together. Jason allowed himself a little moment of joy before the horror started. He whooped.
Garry looked back at him, grinned and then joined in. Startled, a murder of crows shot up from a nearby tree and flew off in a panic.
“Wooohooo! Woohooo! Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooohooooooooooooooo!”
They screamed out loud and laughed hysterically as they careered down the hill.