Surviving The Evacuation (Book 2): Wasteland by Frank Tayell Page A
Authors: Frank Tayell
Tags: Zombies
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weather.
I stood up, careful to stand with the equipment between the village and myself. I thought I was far enough away that the undead wouldn't be able to see me, but I didn't want to take risks, nor be rushed. I strapped the mp3 player and speakers as high as I could reach, making sure they were secure. Then I hesitated.
This was the first music I was going to listen to since that dreary choral stuff they'd played on the Emergency Broadcast. I scanned the playlists, looking for some tune I recognised. I found nothing. I settled on the list with the most tracks and let the music play. A tinny base beat came from the mp3's players built in speaker. I checked that it was set to shuffle and repeat, plugged in the speakers and turned them on.
As a guitar squealed, and the bass beat sped to a cacophonous crescendo, one by one the heads of the undead turned. I knew They weren't looking at me, not really, but it did seem like it. As the sound, surely the loudest heard since the death of our society, certainly the loudest in our silent world, seemed to bounce off the clouds themselves, the undead started moving towards the hill.
It wasn't an orderly march, as a director might have gotten from a cast of extras. Rather it was the shoving, pushing scrum of the mob. Some at the back, what had been the front of the crowd gathered around the baby and its refuge, now pushed through to the front. By dint of being less desiccated, or with fewer injuries or just by virtue of being younger when They turned, They now had the greater strength. Some zombies were pushed down. Some were trampled underfoot. Others staggered, and were pushed along as the pack shifted and started to flow away from the village.
I was standing, about thirty metres higher than, and two fields and a scraggly hedge away from the road. I watched as the first zombie walked straight into the gate at the bottom of the hill. It was a small creature, possibly a child when it had turned. Its arms waved through the gate, not trying to push it open but trying to walk through it. The gate held. I hadn't considered that. I watched another walk into the hedge and become stuck in the brambles and thorns. I hadn't considered that either.
I panicked. I took two steps down the hill, as another zombie, a much larger one, walked into the gate. This time it moved with a jarring clang I could hear even over the music. Then another, and another and another, then the weight of a dozen bodies was pushing at the gate.
The track finished. I saw the gate start to shift and twist. The next song started and, as a saxophone began a soulful lament, the gate toppled into the field.
I turned and started to walk along the crest of the hill back towards the shed. I didn't hurry, though. I didn't feel any need. I thought I was safe, and I didn't want to tax my leg, not until I had to. Then I spotted another creature coming from the north east, angling across the fields towards the music. That was just one more thing I hadn't considered, of course, that I'd be calling the undead not just from the village, but from every direction around. That was when I began to hurry.
I was half way across the field, still half a mile from the shed by the time the first zombie from the village reached the weather station. It stopped. It wasn't intelligence. I know it looked like it at the time. That's something I keep looking out for, some sign that perhaps They are learning, even evolving, and when that zombie stopped I thought it had. I've thought about it since, and now realise that it had heard the sound, but now it was close enough to use its eyes and it could see no prey. I’m sure that's what it was. Others reached the top of the hill, some stopping closer to the music, some further away. More arrived, and a weird milling about began as They looked, or seemed to look, for the cause of the noise.
I hurried now, running in that skipping lope that my leg brace forces upon me. It took five minutes,
I stood up, careful to stand with the equipment between the village and myself. I thought I was far enough away that the undead wouldn't be able to see me, but I didn't want to take risks, nor be rushed. I strapped the mp3 player and speakers as high as I could reach, making sure they were secure. Then I hesitated.
This was the first music I was going to listen to since that dreary choral stuff they'd played on the Emergency Broadcast. I scanned the playlists, looking for some tune I recognised. I found nothing. I settled on the list with the most tracks and let the music play. A tinny base beat came from the mp3's players built in speaker. I checked that it was set to shuffle and repeat, plugged in the speakers and turned them on.
As a guitar squealed, and the bass beat sped to a cacophonous crescendo, one by one the heads of the undead turned. I knew They weren't looking at me, not really, but it did seem like it. As the sound, surely the loudest heard since the death of our society, certainly the loudest in our silent world, seemed to bounce off the clouds themselves, the undead started moving towards the hill.
It wasn't an orderly march, as a director might have gotten from a cast of extras. Rather it was the shoving, pushing scrum of the mob. Some at the back, what had been the front of the crowd gathered around the baby and its refuge, now pushed through to the front. By dint of being less desiccated, or with fewer injuries or just by virtue of being younger when They turned, They now had the greater strength. Some zombies were pushed down. Some were trampled underfoot. Others staggered, and were pushed along as the pack shifted and started to flow away from the village.
I was standing, about thirty metres higher than, and two fields and a scraggly hedge away from the road. I watched as the first zombie walked straight into the gate at the bottom of the hill. It was a small creature, possibly a child when it had turned. Its arms waved through the gate, not trying to push it open but trying to walk through it. The gate held. I hadn't considered that. I watched another walk into the hedge and become stuck in the brambles and thorns. I hadn't considered that either.
I panicked. I took two steps down the hill, as another zombie, a much larger one, walked into the gate. This time it moved with a jarring clang I could hear even over the music. Then another, and another and another, then the weight of a dozen bodies was pushing at the gate.
The track finished. I saw the gate start to shift and twist. The next song started and, as a saxophone began a soulful lament, the gate toppled into the field.
I turned and started to walk along the crest of the hill back towards the shed. I didn't hurry, though. I didn't feel any need. I thought I was safe, and I didn't want to tax my leg, not until I had to. Then I spotted another creature coming from the north east, angling across the fields towards the music. That was just one more thing I hadn't considered, of course, that I'd be calling the undead not just from the village, but from every direction around. That was when I began to hurry.
I was half way across the field, still half a mile from the shed by the time the first zombie from the village reached the weather station. It stopped. It wasn't intelligence. I know it looked like it at the time. That's something I keep looking out for, some sign that perhaps They are learning, even evolving, and when that zombie stopped I thought it had. I've thought about it since, and now realise that it had heard the sound, but now it was close enough to use its eyes and it could see no prey. I’m sure that's what it was. Others reached the top of the hill, some stopping closer to the music, some further away. More arrived, and a weird milling about began as They looked, or seemed to look, for the cause of the noise.
I hurried now, running in that skipping lope that my leg brace forces upon me. It took five minutes,
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