Zomville

The dead won’t eat you. Okay, they might, but not if you know what you’re doing. I shuffle and stumble along in the way I have been trained to do. I pass Bridget. She burps and a few flies appear. She’s been eating. Something. Or someone. The dead don’t technically need flesh, but they can get a bit excitable. 

We worked out pretty quickly the best way to keep them under control. TV. How simple was that? Some giant screens and they were happy. They struggled a bit with Eastenders, but a few looping videos of raw, dripping meat and screaming had them flocking to the telly. The X Factor also seemed popular. We got them into one place, fenced it off, wired it up and, bang, there you go: Zomville.

They’ve moved into the empty houses and they seem to be doing fine. Are they dead? Well, that’s the question. If they’re dead, it would be okay to wipe them out. Believe me, there are plenty of people who are up for that. Chainsaw-toting wannabes the lot of them. Seen a couple of movies and think they’re Woody Harrelson. Some of the zoms probably should be dead, but there they are walking about, grey and green and stinking. It’s been debated by philosophers, doctors and lawyers and things are still not really any clearer. Technically, they’re still citizens of the UK and, moreover, some still have families and friends who think they might recover. The massive online petition to the government was proof of that, and what government is going to risk all those votes? They don’t really generate much of the GDP, but then they don’t cost much, either.

I reach the house and press my thumb onto the ID pad. There is a barely perceptible click and I go inside. I’m back at work. My job is pretty simple: keep the power on. That keeps the TVs working and the fences and gates electrified. It means spending time living in the Big Z – one week on, one week off – and being in deep cover. I’ve been doing it for a while now and I like to think I’m pretty good at it. I’ve certainly lasted longer than the others who started with me.

Zomville isn’t the real name, of course. I work in U-Sector 7: Leicester. Getting in is easy. The company turns up the volumes on the screens or makes a drop of fake designer gear somewhere, then I slip in or out of one of the gates. There’s a company house – secure and safe. It’s just off the Melton Road, in a block of terraces. As I walk away from the edge of the crowd milling around the company’s decoy of fashion trainers and phones they will never Facetime or make voice calls on, I see some of the characters I recognise. There go the Joneses – Dave, Aliyah and Adam. Of course, I’m not sure whether those are their names or not. To be honest, it would be an amazing coincidence if they were. They live just down from me at number 23, though, and they seem alright.  So do the Odedras, the Parkers, and Dave and Gerry.

A bit further down the road is the Abbey Meadows Safari Park. It’s easily accessible from the main bit of town and it’s all fenced off. Families go there on a Sunday for something to do. They can point and laugh and throw scraps for the zoms from the bags they buy. The worst that has happened so far is a few bent car aeriels and some missing wipers. The security staff in the towers are good shots, and there are only ever two or three let loose to roam at any one time. I think about that sometimes. The thought of little Ben Parker or Zara Odedra being used for someone’s entertainment makes my blood boil.

The streets outside are filling up again. I’m always heartened by the companionly way the dead spend time together. There’s a common understanding and a respect for each other that we could all learn a lot from. Sure, they ate Terry in front of me and that was horrible, but it was understandable. Terry didn’t take the training seriously. He’d been out the night before and was trying to smuggle in the remains of his kebab. He broke one of the cardinal rules: never carry meat, reconstituted or otherwise. Pretty much all they left of him was his pitta bread and an unfeasibly large portion of chopped cabbage. The show of solidarity was impressive, but there were other things I started to notice once Terry’s screaming had been reduced to a dim gurgle, low in the lungs. They took it in turns to eat him alive, each tearing a few grisly mouthfuls before moving aside to let somebody else have a turn. Last of all came the little ones, who were allowed the more delicate soft tissues. They took the bones away to gnaw on, like lollipops. I developed a lot of respect for them that day. Of course, I didn’t put that bit in my report.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Bach, especially the partitas for violin. Number 2 in D minor is my favourite. It takes me somewhere else. A funny thing happens, though, when I put it on after a day doing maintenance. At first, there were always one or two zoms who would stop outside the house but it’s now reached a point where a few of them are there before I’ve even pressed play. I see their faces and I see hope and expectation. They close their eyes and they are at peace with their memories. There are a few gathering now. Zara is there. I press the button on the remote and the music starts. I peer through the tinted, reinforced glass, then open the smaller top window a crack. The music is not loud, but they can clearly hear it. They all stop and close their eyes, except for Zara. Her eyes begin to shine, then a tear rolls down her plump, grey cheek. It stays like this for a good ten minutes. The small crowd grows peacefully until there are a couple of dozen standing there in the sad, beautiful music as the summer evening falls gently into dusk.

The peace is broken when I notice my phone flashing. I close the window and kill the music. The zoms come out of their reverie and walk away. It’s Dennis.

“Hey, John. You get in okay?” I am not a fan of Dennis’ small talk. He only asks things like this when he is getting ready to ask a favour afterwards.

“Hi, Dennis. Yes, ta.”

“Good. Good.” There is always the same pause at this point. “Listen, mate. Got an urgent job for you, if you could help me out.” I grunt inquisitively. “Had a bit of a problem down at the park. It’s a bad one. Twenty zoms had a young couple for tea. They’d wandered out of the car and started throwing stuff through the fence. Then the electrics for the gate went down somehow. We’ve now got a no-go area and we need to stop more getting out. The snipers have had the ones that did, of course.”

“Of course,” I respond, dully. My mind is turning over the images. Here is where my job becomes non-routine.

I check that I’ve got everything ready. I’m still made up, but I need another few squirts of eau-de-zom in order to pass through unnoticed. All of the kit will be at the site. I make the house secure and leave by the quarantine area.

The street is as quiet as ever. Streetlamps are starting to flick on. I limp and groan towards the end of the road as quickly as I can without attracting attention. One or two zoms are walking in the same direction as me, but they stop at various houses and go inside with a clatter, or stop dead on the pavement. I realise that one is following just behind me. I try all the techniques I know – checking reflections, pausing, cricking my neck – but with no success until I turn at the corner. It’s Zara. She stays just behind me. I want to say to her, turn back. This is not safe for you. But she would not understand me and I would get eaten. Besides, I have an urgent job to do and I cannot stop.

We continue this way for a good quarter of a mile. Then I hear the car’s tyres squealing on the tarmac and the gunshots. It’s a 4x4 with the lights on full beam and the engine revving high. It mounts the pavement, knocking zoms flying and heads towards us. I cannot think of anything except Zara and keeping her safe. I chance a look at her and I am both relieved and scared stiff that she does not flinch.

The car brakes and skids, stopping side-on to us. There are three young men in there. They look at us. Zara and I have stopped. The men look at each other. One of them smiles as he produces a pistol and begins to take careful aim.

I have only one chance. The street is empty now apart from the car and us. “Stop,” I say. The young man with the gun looks confused. “I work here,” I continue. “Stop what you are doing and leave.” I produce my ID.

The young men look at each other. I have done it, I think to myself. Then one of the other men grabs the pistol, jabs it forward and blows Zara’s brains out. She falls backwards, the sound lost in the gunning of the engine as the car and the young men scream away.

I look at Zara. She is truly dead now. I make my decision. I have a job to do.

It takes me fifteen minutes at zom-pace to reach the park. As I make my way, crowds of zoms begin to appear. We stagger and lurch together in a growing tide past tyre tracks and broken bodies. When we reach Abbey Meadows, I slip through a gate with my card. The staff defer to me in a way that says ‘rather you than me, mate.’ There is a short run over to the damaged gate and the small control hub next to it. I open the panel on the front of the hub and log in. This is when I see my chance.

The hub has equal priority in the system with all the other hubs. This is so, if necessary, the whole system can be managed from a single point which is flexible. In the worst case scenario, areas can be quarantined and the HQ moved about. The system relies on everyone wanting the same thing: containment. The system, however, has a flaw. Me. 

I can hear them. There are hundreds now, with many more approaching. They burp, groan,  shuffle, cry and stagger. The chain-link fences struggle to contain them. I could electrify the fences, but I don’t. Nearby lie the remains of the young couple and their attackers. I see the guards up in the towers. They are primed.

It’s actually quite simple to do. I get the command sequence ready: KILL ALL LIGHTING; OPEN ALL GATES. I think about Terry and the young couple. I think of all the families touring through the safari park. I think of the three young men who were out to kill with impugnity and who dressed it up as revenge. I think of Zara listening to Bach.

We cannot contain them. I press OK.