Zombies! (Episode 7): Conflicts of Interest by Ivan Turner Page B
Authors: Ivan Turner
Tags: Zombies
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Breathing heavily, hair a mess, she turned back to Peter. He was beginning to moan. That was good, but she’d have to hurry. She didn’t want him fully awake until she’d gotten everything set up. Quickly looking around, she spotted the perfect specimen. Just killed, not yet turned. She smiled an evil smile. After all this time, Melissa Benford would have her revenge.
***
What brought John Arrick’s mind back into focus was a sharp pain in the right side of his back. He cried out and lost his footing, tumbling forward and skinning both of his knees and the palms of his hands. The pain in his back disappeared and he got to his feet. As soon as he put one leg in front of the other, his back cried out in agony once again. When he grabbed it with his hand, he felt a slick wetness there. Tracing back the last few moments in his head, he realized that he’d been shot.
He’d been shot .
He tried to take a deep breath to calm himself but that sent a fresh wave of torture shooting through his entire middle. He coughed once and tasted something thick and metallic. Not saliva but blood. He’d coughed up blood. Thinking to get help from the policeman, Heron, he tried to turn around, but he’d lost his bearings. It was a dark and wide open space and there was no way for him to know which way was which. The warehouse was on one side of him, or in front, or behind. He couldn’t tell. He was dizzy and something was drizzling out of the corners of his mouth.
All at once, he became aware of the sounds of footsteps. There were people here. Maybe they could help him. There was a funny smell to them, but it didn’t smell bad. Just funny.
Grabbing the first of the people (there were an awful lot of them), he pulled her face close. “Please help me. I’ve been shot.”
She didn’t respond. There was something wrong with her mouth. Her lips were all swollen. Or maybe that was just his perception. At first she tried to keep walking, but he held on as tightly as he could. Finally, she’d had enough of him and shoved him away. His grip fell away and he stumbled into another person, pleading for help as he did. The second person shoved him away as well. In fact, every person with whom he came into contact brushed past him either gently or forcibly. When the last of them had passed, he was left standing on his own in the open space watching their retreating forms.
“Won’t anyone help me?” he shouted. Actually, he thought he was shouting, but he was barely whispering. His lung had been punctured and he could hardly draw air to speak. “What’s wrong with you people?”
He stood there for a moment, swaying on his feet. Then he went to his knees, the thoughts in his head turning fuzzy from loss of blood.
God damned Americans , he thought. They only think about themselves.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry…” he mouthed, barely any sound coming from his throat now. “I’m sorry, dad. I’m sorry, mum.”
He fell forward onto his elbows and spit a wad of phlegm and blood onto the ground. “Malcolm,” he gurgled. “Tell me that you forgive me. Forgive me, Malcolm. I’ve failed you.” But somehow he knew that, though Malcolm might mourn him, he would never forgive him.
And so it was a fitting death for John Arrick, who, let’s be honest, was living on borrowed time anyway. As his last breaths issued forth with less and less push, he saw the white light of thoughtlessness and simply died there on the dirty ground…all by himself.
***
Awareness came rushing back to Peter. He’d had some notion of being dragged and bumped around, but he hadn’t been able to focus, nor could he move his arms and legs. Now, though, he was beginning to feel the sensation coming back. Still, the shock seemed to have sapped his strength. He felt as if the weight of an entire person was on top of him.
“Coming around?”
***
What brought John Arrick’s mind back into focus was a sharp pain in the right side of his back. He cried out and lost his footing, tumbling forward and skinning both of his knees and the palms of his hands. The pain in his back disappeared and he got to his feet. As soon as he put one leg in front of the other, his back cried out in agony once again. When he grabbed it with his hand, he felt a slick wetness there. Tracing back the last few moments in his head, he realized that he’d been shot.
He’d been shot .
He tried to take a deep breath to calm himself but that sent a fresh wave of torture shooting through his entire middle. He coughed once and tasted something thick and metallic. Not saliva but blood. He’d coughed up blood. Thinking to get help from the policeman, Heron, he tried to turn around, but he’d lost his bearings. It was a dark and wide open space and there was no way for him to know which way was which. The warehouse was on one side of him, or in front, or behind. He couldn’t tell. He was dizzy and something was drizzling out of the corners of his mouth.
All at once, he became aware of the sounds of footsteps. There were people here. Maybe they could help him. There was a funny smell to them, but it didn’t smell bad. Just funny.
Grabbing the first of the people (there were an awful lot of them), he pulled her face close. “Please help me. I’ve been shot.”
She didn’t respond. There was something wrong with her mouth. Her lips were all swollen. Or maybe that was just his perception. At first she tried to keep walking, but he held on as tightly as he could. Finally, she’d had enough of him and shoved him away. His grip fell away and he stumbled into another person, pleading for help as he did. The second person shoved him away as well. In fact, every person with whom he came into contact brushed past him either gently or forcibly. When the last of them had passed, he was left standing on his own in the open space watching their retreating forms.
“Won’t anyone help me?” he shouted. Actually, he thought he was shouting, but he was barely whispering. His lung had been punctured and he could hardly draw air to speak. “What’s wrong with you people?”
He stood there for a moment, swaying on his feet. Then he went to his knees, the thoughts in his head turning fuzzy from loss of blood.
God damned Americans , he thought. They only think about themselves.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry…” he mouthed, barely any sound coming from his throat now. “I’m sorry, dad. I’m sorry, mum.”
He fell forward onto his elbows and spit a wad of phlegm and blood onto the ground. “Malcolm,” he gurgled. “Tell me that you forgive me. Forgive me, Malcolm. I’ve failed you.” But somehow he knew that, though Malcolm might mourn him, he would never forgive him.
And so it was a fitting death for John Arrick, who, let’s be honest, was living on borrowed time anyway. As his last breaths issued forth with less and less push, he saw the white light of thoughtlessness and simply died there on the dirty ground…all by himself.
***
Awareness came rushing back to Peter. He’d had some notion of being dragged and bumped around, but he hadn’t been able to focus, nor could he move his arms and legs. Now, though, he was beginning to feel the sensation coming back. Still, the shock seemed to have sapped his strength. He felt as if the weight of an entire person was on top of him.
“Coming around?”
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