Disintegration

9

Both Stokes and Webb were up unusually early the following morning.

“Where are you two going?” Jas asked as they began to walk down the hill away from the flats. He shielded his eyes from the early morning sun which climbed over the ruins of the dead city in the distance. He always felt nervous when they were together like this.

“Therapy,” Stokes answered, his voice sounding surprisingly cheerful. “Webb’s feeling a little tense today. Thought it might do him good to take out his frustrations on a few of our friends down below.”

He kept walking, forcing Jas to have to shout to make his next question heard.

“And what exactly is it you’re going to do?”

“Still smells indoors,” he said, being deliberately vague and holding up a plastic bag bulging with food and drink. “We thought we’d have breakfast outside this morning.”

“Nosy bastard,” Webb grumbled. Jas was still shouting after them, but they both ignored him and carried on walking down the hill.

“Ah, don’t worry about him,” Stoke said. “He’s just trying to let us know he’s in charge. Him and Hollis are like a pair of bloody mother hens. They nag me more than my old missus ever did!”

Webb smirked as he swung his baseball bat around, loosening his shoulders in preparation for the fight. Stokes glanced back over his shoulder. Jas had disappeared. Probably gone back inside to moan to the others about them, he thought.

The sweeping hill in front of them resembled a series of interconnected bomb sites. Hardly anything remained of the lowest block of flats and over time the bodies had managed to encroach on most of the uneven land where the building had originally stood. The sudden apocalypse had abruptly halted work on the second building midway through its demolition. One wing had already been completely leveled, the other reduced to a windowless, skeletal frame. The rubbish-strewn area had been enclosed by a wire-mesh fence, originally erected to keep vandals and other timewasters at bay. Two large diggers had been abandoned nearby and, once the group had worked out how to drive them, the powerful machines had proved useful in shifting tons of debris, beaten-up cars, and other wreckage to construct the ugly but effective barricade between the ruins of the first two buildings. Uneven and improvised it might have been, but it had successfully kept the ever-growing mass of corpses at bay for weeks now.

Webb and Stokes reached the wire-mesh enclosure. Stokes lifted a loose section of fence and Webb ducked down and went through like a fighter entering the ring through the ropes. Together they walked out into the center of the large patch of waste-ground, dotted with piles of masonry and the occasional sprouting of weeds. They used this area as a training ground of sorts, a place where Webb could flex his muscles and the older man could flex his vocal cords. Webb fancied himself as a welterweight champion. Stokes fancied himself as his coach.

“How many you going for today?” he asked. Webb stared back through the wire mesh at the hordes of bodies a short distance away.

“I’ll start with five. Way I feel, though, I could get rid of the whole fucking lot of them.”

“Just see how you get on,” Stokes suggested, perching himself on a seat of crumbling brickwork and opening his first can of beer of the day. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

Webb continued to look deep into the endless mass of loathsome figures, eyeing up potential opponents for the one-sided sparring session he was planning. He knew it didn’t matter which monstrosity he plucked from the crowd—one worthless, maggot-ridden, decaying piece of shit was the same as the next. Running forward, he peeled a previously prepared section of the wire fence back in on itself, scrambled through the hole he’d made, and then jogged out toward the corpses. He climbed up onto the crumpled bonnet of an old black taxi, then reached down and grabbed the shoulders of the nearest body. He lifted its light, withered frame and, in a single movement, threw it over the taxi and back toward the hole in the fence through which he’d just emerged. It landed in an undignified heap in the dust, arms and legs everywhere, then immediately dragged itself up and began to stagger back in his direction. He paid it little attention, concentrating instead on plucking more writhing creatures from the crowd. Many vicious, thrashing hands reached up into the air as if volunteering for slaughter. He ignored them as he quickly hauled another four diseased figures over onto the other side of the blockade. He herded them back toward his arena. For the most part they conveniently followed him and he shoved each of them down through the gap when they were close enough. If they tried to retaliate or resist he simply threw them to the ground, then kicked and punched them through to the other side of the fence.

“Fuck me, look at that one!” Stokes laughed as Webb forced the last cadaver through the hole in the mesh. “No arms!” Howling with laughter he pointed at the naked remains of a middle-aged woman which stumbled back toward Webb as he closed and secured the fence. The pitiful carcass had somehow managed to lose both arms, one at the shoulder and the other just below the elbow. The longer of its two stumps twitched angrily. “Christ, Webb, fighting a dead woman with no arms? You really know how to pick them, don’t you! You bloody idiot!”

“Piss off,” Webb snapped as he sized up his wretched opponents. He picked up his baseball bat and watched the five empty shells as they slowly lumbered across the wasteland toward him. Their already awkward and unsteady gait was worsened by the uneven ground beneath their decaying feet. Several of them fell as they moved toward him, hitting the dirt with force and immediately hauling themselves back up again, not a flicker of emotion showing on their grotesque, deformed faces. Stokes watched closely as he slugged back his beer, lifting his legs out of the way as one of the creatures stumbled uncomfortably near.

“Take your time,” he instructed, stifling a gassy belch and lowering his voice when the body that had just passed him turned back and shuffled toward him again. “Nothing clever, son, just take your time.”

Webb wasn’t listening. He’d already chosen his first victim. He advanced quickly toward the shell of a six-week-dead firefighter. It looked vaguely comical in its oversize protective jacket. It might have fitted once, but weeks of emaciation had reduced the size and bulk of the body considerably so that it now looked like a child that had stolen the jacket from a dressing-up box. Its helmet had slipped off its shrunken head and now hung around its neck by the strap. With a sudden roar of exertion Webb swung his baseball bat around in a climbing arc, thumping it up into the dead firefighter’s chin. The force of impact flung the body up into the air. It crashed down at the feet of another shambling corpse. Webb rushed toward both of them with predatory speed, planting his boot on the chest of the body on the deck and swinging a wild punch at the other creature. More through luck than judgment he caught it full-on square in the face with maximum force. His leather-gloved hand sunk deep into its flesh. He quickly pulled it back again and shook it clean as the faceless cadaver crumbled.

“Not bad, eh?” He grinned breathlessly as he lifted his boot and stamped on the head of the firefighter on the ground. Two down.

“Not bad at all,” Stokes agreed, enjoying the show. “Watch out, here she comes!”

Webb spun around to see the dismembered, armless aberration shuffling closer. It had a lopsided walk and an unusually sad and melancholy expression fixed on its frozen face. Save for its almost translucent skin and myriad of prominent dark purple and blue veins, its torso appeared relatively untouched by decay and he found himself staring at its surprisingly pert, bouncing breasts as it lumbered toward him. When it got too close he rammed the rounded end of the baseball bat forward, hitting it right between the eyes and sending it sprawling back. He viciously lashed out again, the second hard shunt splitting the paper-thin skin which was stretched tight across its forehead. A third smack briefly exposed bare bone before Webb lifted the bat and hammered it down, splitting its skull and permanently stopping it from moving.

“Too easy,” he said, wiping his brow. Without stopping he marched on toward the fourth putrid carcass. This time he used the long shaft of the bat to attack, smashing it into the monster’s right arm with a satisfying thud, then swapping hands and swinging it in the opposite direction, hitting the left side with enough force to shatter bone. The body continued to advance, not able to understand why it suddenly couldn’t use its arms. Webb allowed it to get a little closer, knowing that the worst it could do was stumble into him. He finally shoved it back away then swung the bat around again, smashing into its pelvis. He’d already done more than enough damage to completely disable it but he continued to attack. The corpse found itself on its back, unable to move and looking up at the sun. Webb landed more brutal, bone-cracking blows across its ribs and legs, taking care not to damage it above the shoulders. When it had been completely incapacitated he stepped back and stared at his handiwork. Its head still moved constantly, just as inquisitive and curious as it had been seconds earlier, unable to work out why it couldn’t get up. Rather than end its miserable existence, Webb instead decided to leave it where it lay to watch him. He liked an audience.

Last one. He sized up his final opponent.

“What are you waiting for?” Stokes shouted.

“Watch this,” Webb yelled back. He ran toward the last corpse, swinging the baseball bat again and timing his strike to the head perfectly. Weak flesh tore and withered sinews snapped. Partially decapitated, the diseased creature staggered back, then collapsed on the ground, flat on its stomach but with its head still looking up.

“Nice one,” Stokes said, throwing away his empty beer can and giving Webb a slow handclap. “Here you go, get this down you.” He threw a can over to him, then opened another for himself. Webb drank thirstily.

“Going to do a few more,” he said between gulps.

“Might as well,” Stokes agreed. “Nothing else to do.”

With adrenaline from the satisfying but one-sided fight still coursing through his veins, Webb finished his can, then scrambled back out through the wire mesh. Moving with more speed and confidence now, he jumped back onto the wreck of the taxi again and unceremoniously snatched four more corpses from the edge of the heaving crowd. He rammed them back through the hole in the fence.

“Take your time,” Stokes suggested, standing on the pile of rubble now so that he could get a better view. “Fifty points for a kill, double if you do it with one hit.”

Webb glanced over at him and grinned as he picked up his weapon again.

“Easy. Watch this.”

His next victim was hunched forward like an old crone. Its physical deterioration was such that it was impossible to be sure what age it had been when it had died. Six or sixty, it didn’t matter; it only had seconds left now. Using the cadaver’s top-heavy gait to his advantage, Webb lifted the baseball bat high and brought it down hard on the back of its skull as if he was trying to hammer it into the ground. Facedown in the dust, the corpse twitched for an instant then lay still.

“One hundred points!” Stokes announced. “Good lad!”

Webb turned and moved toward the next shuffler, ready to repeat the maneuver and double his score. Maybe he’d knock this one’s head clean off its shoulders, he thought. A sudden flurry of movement from another body on his right caught him off guard. He spun around to defend himself but was too late and he lost his balance, tripping over a pile of broken bricks as the corpse of a boiler-suited garbage collector grabbed hold of him. Stunned by the sudden, unexpected attack he struggled to shake the creature off. He lifted his arm to push it away and watched in disbelief as the horrifically decayed monstrosity sank its few remaining yellow teeth into the leather sleeve of his jacket.

“Jesus Christ!” Stokes shouted, jumping down from the pile of rubble and knocking his beer over. Although he usually did all that he could to avoid physical contact with the dead, he immediately grabbed the corpse and yanked it back, throwing it to the ground. Webb turned and unleashed a furious attack on the body, kicking its face repeatedly with his steel-toed boots.

“Damn fucking thing,” he seethed. “You stupid fucking thing!”

The bloody body on the ground stopped moving almost instantly. Webb immediately turned and dealt with the remaining two corpses which, bizarrely, actually seemed now to be trying to move away from him. He ran at the first and grabbed a handful of greasy, wiry hair. In the same movement he continued forward, slamming its face down hard into a mound of broken concrete and twisted metal. He felt none of the usual satisfaction, just fear.

A short distance away, Stokes was gingerly pushing the last body away, trying to summon up the courage to attack. Full of words but usually very little action, he couldn’t begin to match Webb’s ferocity. Webb grabbed a length of narrow gauge metal pipe which was sticking out of the rubble at his feet.

“Get out of the way!” he screamed at Stokes as he ran toward him. Stokes obediently did as he was told, leaving the last corpse standing alone, swaying unsteadily. Webb speared it with his lance, sinking the pipe so deep into its chest cavity that it burst out through the other side, its decayed innards slopping down in a puddle on the ground behind it. Unbalanced, its legs gave way. Webb made certain of the kill with a single stomp of his boot to its vacant, emotionless face.

“Did that thing bite you?” Stokes asked, standing over the bulk of the fallen garbage collector.

Webb answered only with a nervous nod of the head before running back up the hill toward the flats. Stokes followed close behind with uncharacteristic speed, sheer terror keeping his out-of-shape body moving forward.