Dead End Job (Book One of the 'Zombino' series)

By Chris Welsh

A call centre employee, a security guard and a receptionist find themselves trapped on the tenth floor of their remote office block...in the middle of a mysterious zombie outbreak.

Can they fight their way past hundreds of hungry, flesh-craving mouths? Can they figure out who or what is behind the outbreak?

-

DEAD END JOB is a darkly comic horror story full of monsters, gore and misadventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Welsh
• Release date: Mar 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301951390

Chris Welsh

I am a writer from Liverpool, UK. I've written three full novels and a whole bunch of short stories. I try to keep a blog but I'm not very good at it.I like horror, sci fi and absurdist humour. Also, I read a lot of comics.

Book preview

Chapter Zero. Time & Date Irrelevant

INTENTIONALLY HOKEY PROLOGUE.

Fear gorged my brain, hollowed it out, left only morsels rattling around my skull. I felt another being inside of me, taunting my original self, jabbing it with a snapped branch and blocking every sane notion. The relentless horror shook my goose-bumped flesh almost free of my bones.

They rocked idly like concert-goers awaiting the first drumbeat, blocking every escape route with walls of rotting stench. Walls with a hunger. I was a buffet yet to open. A table with hunks of flesh in the corner of a party, coveted by every starving, clock-watching attendee.

-

Several hours dripped by since I climbed atop the small convenience store, my chosen place of refuge. I spent the time weighing up options, considering each meagre one at length, waiting to take my shot at freedom via certain death. The stillness of the malevolent sea churned my stomach; their inhuman patience I found deeply unsettling. A braying mob of humans would hoist pitchforks and shout, fight to reach me, show a clear and undeniable threat. Wolves would snap and snarl. Sharks would lurk and seize their moment whilst their victim bobbed helplessly in the surf.

Zombies merely waited, incapable of becoming bored, packed in below me like Styrofoam chunks in a shipping box.

An occasional gunshot blasted from the dark distance, either a survivor fighting back or a loser checking out before infection or zombie mob forced their hand. Each lone, sporadic gunshot sank my heart a little lower.

I considered suicide for as long as I could stand it. I thought about climbing down and running with my eyes closed until they claimed me.

Neither truly felt like an option.

Too cowardly to fight. Too scared to end it.

-

I fled my home at the first sign of madness, leaving my feral girlfriend trapped in our bedroom. She stumbled in from work and tried to make a meal of my shoulder, her dry lips rolled back revealing long, stained teeth and oozing gums. Her glare was one of ferocious hunger and hatred, impure inhumanity. A half-caught news report urged viewers to remain in their homes, build barricades, but I couldn't stay.

Their tip was a good one, though; outside was much worse.

As soon as I stepped out I wished I'd hidden in the closet or bathroom like a child running from a drunken dad. My sleepy suburb mutated into a war-torn village littered with bodies of the fallen and countless roaming threats. Neighbours fought a gang of ghastly horrors but were quickly overcome, swamped by numbers until their makeshift weapons were all but useless. No rake or shovel on Earth sturdy enough to defeat an army of the undead.

I ran until my knees gave out and each breath felt like chugging napalm. My embarrassing, debilitating fatigue persuaded me to hide away in the cellar of a recently abandoned book store.

The musty stink of ageing paperbacks hit me, familiar and virile; strong enough to overwhelm my scent of fear and perspiration, hopefully discouraging the shambling monstrosities from searching for me. For a while it was the perfect place, even if my insistent unease refused to allow any semblance of relaxation.

After inspecting every corner and ensuring my loneliness, I welcomed the darkness of the storeroom. I found an old axe with a sawn, half-sized handle but sizeable chopper, propped up against a wall and covered in cobwebs. I kept an intent eye on the single entrance, ready to defend against anything that might pay a visit. I noted the ground-floor window, big enough to squeeze through if it came to that, plastered with old newspaper to cover up cracks and secured only by a hook.

The main entrance to the basement hid well away in the back of the shop, at the top of some stairs. It'd take a lot of bad luck on my behalf for a zombie to stumble upon my squalid trench. I held the axe like I knew what to do with it, but beyond the basic 'swing and hit' I knew nothing.

I saw a few of them killed on my frenzied route across town. Braver people than me knocked the beasts to the ground with a shoulder to the gut, and stomped their heads until only mush remained. A good strategy, helped in no small part by the unbalance inherent to their kind. So long as they stood alone, they were no real problem, mere targets in a messy carnival game.

I reached the book store a touch after three, exhausted from pounding the streets, searching for safety. I thought I'd struck lucky. I thought I would be safe, waiting out until rescue.

Until it came.

One at first, sullying my secret, perfect hideaway. A groan from above alerted me to the bad news, then it stumbled down in nothing but a light blue towelling gown which hung wide open. Skin the texture of a hog roast. The robe caught under its unstable feet and sent it tumbling down the last few steps. I slammed the axe into its head, too hard, jamming the tip in to the concrete floor. It moved again, shaking, trying to climb to its feet despite the weapon pinning it securely down. Sickly green ooze cascaded from the wound, smelling worse than old eggs in an onion and faeces omelette. It didn't seem to understand or even really notice.

I managed to cover it with a few stacks of heavy, dusty hardbacks but the racket alerted others. Barely a minute slipped by before more bounded shakily down the stairs, blocking my best escape route.

The tiny window served its purpose, though the dangling lock caught my shirt and tore it, leaving a red scratch down my spine that bled a few drops. Only swiping arms and hellish moans followed me out.

I ran, searching for the next suitable spot to offer a sliver of safety. The sound of my wheezing lungs and pounding feet attracted attention, likely helped by the fresh, stinging wound on my back. The convenience store came into view around a corner, sat in the centre of a large mall car park. A small amount of grass and trees spruced up the surrounding area but little else existed except flat tarmac and painted lines. Barely any zombies occupied the space between me and the store, but the few that did would hit me in minutes if I didn't make a move.

The store sold ice cream and coffee to people with nothing better to do than hang out in a car park eating ice cream and drinking coffee. Barely far enough from the main mall to justify its existence, perhaps hoping to pick up on the lucrative 'husband left to stew whilst wife shops' market. I reached the building a good way ahead of my few rotted followers and shook on the handle with impotent tenacity. It was all locked up, even though the dangling sign read 'Come in!' with a smiling, female graphic. I spied someone inside but only one light near the ice cream bar lit up and the tall chairs and natty couches cast nuisance shadows across everything.

It became apparent, several seconds later, that the person inside wasn't alone, nor were they alive. A man in a dainty uniform, tie and sleeveless sweater over a crisp white shirt, slammed against the door and near shocked my heart right out of my mouth. He had an eye dangling from its socket like a ball on a string, bouncing around against his chin as he scrabbled at the glass. A second body in a similar state of disrepair joined it, a petite lady in a pretty yellow dress, ruined by the river of blood dripping from her missing throat.

I spun to find a group of beasties mere yards away and pulled myself up on to a large bin at the side of the building. A distant smash drew my attention and I saw a veritable army of them pour out of the mall's expansive entrance, stepping over shattered glass to invade the expansive car park. From the bin, my only move was up to the flat roof, thankfully free of immediate threat.

I sat under the baking afternoon sun, hoping to God they didn't know how to climb.

-

It was a mistake, of course, to trap myself. The wide-open spaces quickly filled with the undead, drawn-in by the hive-mind. An endless throng of mutilated bodies exited the mall and staggered in all directions. Most aimed for me.

Some appeared almost human, members of society fallen to zombies and reawakened immediately, converted. Others wore a worse condition, covered in dirt and dried blood, their gaunt bodies damaged by the fight they put up to crawl out of graves. Some were no more than skeletons draped in leathery skin, somehow able to crawl and sneak up from the grassy undergrowth.

The only constant attribute were the angry, feral eyes they all had. They appeared possessed, demonic. Like their conscious humanity had boiled away, entirely separated from their deteriorating bodies. Even the fully rotted had red, pool-ball eyes sunk deep in their faces. Pure, threatening menace poured from them like pus from an infected scab. Nothing relatable remained.

I needed a new plan, before my fear manifested into madness.

-

I spotted a nondescript duffel bag sitting in the opposite corner of the roof, beside to a foldaway chair. It hadn't been there before, I swore it, but there it was.

Unquestioningly I opened up the bag to see what treasures lay behind its heavy, inviting zip.

I received:

Two short bits of wood,

Several handguns,

A grenade launcher,

A sword with a detailed skull etched on the handle

A small but powerful crossbow and a barrel full of arrows

A strange red herb,

and

An inexplicably chilled can of beer.

Thinking clearly for the first time, looking out at the mess of gathered inhumanity, a hasty plan of action bloomed.

I shook the can like an aerosol until it felt about ready to burst, until I heard the contents bubbling away, and threw it into the crowd to create a small diversion. Only then did I realise I should have cracked it and chugged half, before nonchalantly tossing the rest away.

Dropping on to the bin, I used the sword to relieve a few of the ghouls of their ugly faces whilst firing grenades to clear a path. Each round made a 'chunk' as it left the tube, arcing through the air and landing with a satisfying yet modest explosion. Most direct-hits vaporised completely, others caught at the edge of each blow split into sections and flew through the air.

I shouted Yeeeeaaaaarrrrrrghhhhhh!

The sea of monsters parted and I hopped to the ground, slashing wildly with the exquisite blade. As quick as I took them down, more replaced their fallen brethren and they closed in again, desperate to sink their teeth in my skin or desperate to die at my hands. I wasn't sure. They'd gone from idle to aggressive in the time it took me to launch an explosive, cock-sure attack. Ditching the spent launcher, empty and useless at close range, I slipped the sword into a belt loop and pulled the two elegant handguns from clips on my waist. Where the clips came from, I couldn't honestly say.

I charged my way through, popping bullets in any skull that dared get close, skipping gracefully over the flaming, bloody carnage caused by my grenade antics. With barely a scratch I reached a handily abandoned ice cream truck, fortified for some reason and with another bag of weapons sat on the passenger seat. I reached out to grasp the small metal door handle...

...and felt my head thud against cold glass. Then mild pain. A shot of delirium passed through me.

'I've done it again,' I thought, rubbing at the sore spot on the side of my head. Tossed back to the real world where I had no army-issue ice cream truck or a girlfriend, feral or otherwise. I didn't even have a cold beer or an arsenal of fantastical weaponry.

My eyes clung desperately to sleep, only opening under heavy protest and presenting the world to me as a blurry mess of imprecise colours.

Napping on the bus to work was a predilection of mine; an unfortunate trait, but not my worst. Usually I woke when the bus juddered due to passing over bumps in the road, or over some pedestrians, depending on the sanity of the driver. Never had I rattled from slumber because an old crone ruthlessly smacked my sleeping features off the window. I rubbed one eye awake enough to look at her and she launched into her argument, furious that I hadn't immediately offered my seat to the oldest bidder. She had a substantially hairy top lip and breath like rotten cat food. The tip of her index finger, bony and jabbing me in the chest, appeared to have fossils embedded under the greenish, unpainted nail.

My generation died in the war for you! You ungrateful ballbag! Move your fat behind and let me sit! she squawked through ill-fitting dentures that clacked and collected spittle as she spoke.

Admittedly, I'd chose to sit in the special fold-down seat reserved for the infirm or disabled, but I had been asleep. I would've argued this was the ultimate in temporary disabilities if the shock of waking under such circumstances hadn't spooked all words from my tongue. At the very least I classed myself as infirm, perhaps even vulnerable; defenceless against her attacks. She capitalised on that fact like an aggressive, elderly nightmare.

Whilst her harsh words dribbled through my sleepy haze, I neglected to point out that she clearly didn't die in the war, and if she had, we wouldn't have a problem. I also didn't mention that, whilst she was indeed older than most senior denizens of hell, she would have barely been a glint in her father's ball-sack by the time the Second World War wrapped up, giving her about as much chance of dying in that war as I did of becoming king of the rat-people.

With my stop approaching next, I begrudgingly relinquished the seat to the 'kindly old lady' in the hair net and patented pastel coloured GrandmaCoat™ and hopped off the bus, pushing past an army of similarly ornery gravedodgers so eager to board that they had no interest in letting me off. I pretended not to notice my foe's offensive hand gesture as I passed the window on my way to my next glorious destination, the monorail station, for the second leg of my achingly dull commute. I did, however, spend my three minute walk inventively plotting her messy demise.

I'll get her next time, I promised, addressing anyone listening in on my thoughts. Oh yes, I'd get her. Possibly with some sort of jabby-forky-twisty instrument and a decent run up.

I made a quick note to self:

Invent a jabby-forky-twisty instrument.

And give it a snappier name.

Chapter One. 08:30am

THE UNLIKELY HERO OF THE PIECE.

I stumbled slow up the long steps towards the warm, inviting light of the office foyer. A crowd gathered ahead of me, one I'd hung at the rear of, avoiding all the altercations that took place when so many people crammed through a lone set of double doors.

The grey-scale clouds and approaching winter made the trip to work almost unbearable; each morning felt like a thousand mile march toward a doomed battlefield. It wasn't too cold out yet but it was dark and the looming possibility of rain threatened to soak everything at the blink of a tired eye or the drop of a woollen hat. Lots of people wore hats, incidentally, thereby increasing the chances of such an occurrence. They also wore thick, waterproof coats with fluffy hoods on the off-chance of a freak storm, making the train altogether stuffier and more sweat-scented than ever intended.

Five minutes sat wedged between two huddled, sniffling walrus-men made me feel like a ham reluctantly roasted inside an unconventional yet mildly functional oven.

Of all the passengers, only one man in an inexplicable tweed suit appeared to enjoy himself at all, presumably glad to not be swathed by a plastic jacket. When I say inexplicable tweed, I do mean it; this suit was entirely tweed. It had more in common with a dogtooth-patterned burlap sack than a finely tailored three-piece, but he smiled at everyone, displaying his happiness for all to envy.

The sky leaked at some point through the night, giving the air a fresh, wet smell that tickled the nose. No sign of a comforting, all-day sun lay on the horizon. There hadn't been any for weeks. Between the winter recently gone and the one coming up, it felt as if summer vanished off to somewhere else entirely.

Maybe it went to Spain for a few months; I hear the weather is splendid there.

-

I adopted a look of classy determination as I stepped inside, just another young go-getter in the prime of life, but I sensed I looked ill and perhaps a little confused, so quickly gave up that charade. 'Aspiring' was a look I struggled with because I couldn't adequately quantify it. Couldn't emulate it as I wasn't sure what it looked like. Whilst catching a glance at my own face in a polished glass door, I saw my attempt at a smile broadcast as a definite frown. Even the limp tie around my neck gave off a thoroughly unhappy impression.

I suspected the building contained its own bastardised brand of gravity, but instead of dragging everything down without prejudice, it only tugged down the hopes, dreams and mouth-corners of every employee. It exuded displeasure, encouraged sadness and generated various levels of depression in every employee that correlated inversely to the size of their annual income.

For me, it was big on depression, low on cash.

I felt a mutual animosity with the building, as if it knew how I felt about it and it saw no issue with reciprocating that displeasure. It hated me just as much as I hated it. I'm sure, given the chance, it would hate everyone in the world.

Vending machines posed proudly a few yards inside the foyer, with large buttons and a soft, inviting glow. They promised so much more than they delivered because they were always entirely vacant of anything good, i.e. anything anyone may actually want to pay for and subsequently put in their faces. Plenty of stale crisps filled the racks alongside cheap chocolate bars containing nuts no-one ever heard of. The powers that be routinely stocked the drinks machine with obscure European imitations of popular soft drinks that tended to imitate the image but neglect the taste, filling the container with off-colour pig swill instead.

Have a can of Corque to wash down lunch. Go on.

'Enjoy its syrupy, guacamole flavours and tar-like texture,' said no one, ever.

I forsook any early morning snacking and strolled the vast, plant-lined entrance until I landed at the main reception desk, passing many a rancid painting that looked like absolutely nothing. A banal collection of 'Art' based around patterns of coloured lines and cheap, splattered paint were the highlights of this particular corridor. One piece bafflingly named 'Cinnamon Dreams' was the exact polar opposite of interesting. In fact, I'd go as far as to say it was shit.

Morning, Susan! I cried, too eager, as I approached the nomadic reception desk.

Good morning, Joe, How're you?

Hungry, mostly. You?

I'm okay, thanks. Surviving! Could be worse...!

True! I said. There could be zombies everywhere! Undead monsters roaming the corridors, eating people's brains like peppercorn steaks and...

I stopped when I saw her bemused face. ...ice cream trucks and such. Yeah.

Strange thing to say, Joe. You know, for a Monday morning.

She spoke matter-of-factly, as if my imploding face didn't already convey enough shame.

Yes...it was, wasn't it? I said, not allowing myself time to question why the day of the week mattered. I had a bit of a zombie day-dream earlier on the bus, before I tussled with a geriatric. I've not had a great morning.

I laughed heartily, because I had nothing else to say from my hole in the ground. Dumb guffaws served as my back-up plan, a reserve army of silence-fillers that waited to pounce willy-nilly from my mouth. She didn't join in, so I felt out of place and stared forwards at the big golden sign behind her, 'Tall Trees.', until she blessed me with a goodbye, giving me a window to dive through. Somehow the awkward, metaphorical hole continued to grow and embarrassment dragged behind me like toilet roll stuck to a shoe.

Oh, wait! she said, sliding out a draw of her desk to reveal a yellow plate with two slices of white cake on. Would you like some cake?

I would, I said, spinning around quickly. What's the occasion?

It isn't my birthday.

This didn't make as much sense as she seemed to think it did. I gave her a bemused look until she explained.

I mean...someone thought it was my birthday and brought me some cake in. But it isn't my birthday. I don't have cake every day that isn't my birthday.

Oh, it shows! I said. I meant it as a compliment.

She handed me a napkin with a slice on. A corner piece, no less; 'onist xx' was written in delicate pink icing.

I've been giving it out all morning but I've not tried it yet. I'm a bit scared to eat it, honestly. I didn't recognise the guy who gave me it. He was a bit...slimy.

I sniffed at it. It didn't smell like cake. What kind of cake did he say it was?

'Birthday'.

Oh. Okay. Um, I'm sure it's lovely. All that...jam? Is it jam? Whatever it is. Fantastic. If it poisons me you'll have to point the guy out to me, provided I'm not dead.

Oh, well, yes I'll sure do that. Have a nice day anyway Joe.

I don't think I will, I thought aloud as I dashed through the double doors. I deposited the cake in the nearest bin.

A fairly normal start to my day, if one ignored the extraneous zombie references and the potentially disastrous cake. I exchanged pleasantries with Susan most mornings on my passage through the grand and not-tacky-at-all reception area. This typically resulted in a painful, meandering back and forth in which neither of us knew quite what to say but I ploughed on anyway, like a salmon battling upstream towards a pack of waiting bears.

Susan is one of the 'good guys' however, and about the only person in the building to actively acknowledge me. I'm not sure why she calls me Joe because my name is Wes; it even says so on the employee pass slung around my neck. The one I show her every morning, the one that makes a picture of me pop up on her computer screen when I swipe it across the scanner. But I appreciate her smiley demeanour regardless.

The company with whom I am so gainfully employed is one of those faceless organizations with a staff of many thousands all over the world. They enforce a non-negotiable dress code of white shirt with a tie yet vehemently insist individuality is important. They say 'Each Employee Counts' and they say so several times a day on company-wide email updates, letting everyone know they're important enough to have their names included in the 'All' list in the email address book. Initially I thought it could be a typo that intended to say 'Each Employee Can Count', but members of my team often used their fingers to add up. One woman routinely removed her socks and shoes if she came up against a complex sum, such as ten plus any number less than ten. Beyond that it's Calculator City, or she simply ignores the problem.

Somewhat conversely to the insistent message, I doubted they were aware of any of us; at least not as anything more individual than a large, amorphous, working blob that takes up office space and excretes customer service. I felt positive I could slow dance with any dead-looking Yucca plant in the room and nobody would bat a disinterested eyelid. No co-workers or management. Not even the Yucca. Because it's probably dead. And doesn't have eyelids. And is a plant.

If I were any lesser mortal, or one who actually cared, it may have strained my psyche. I knew that there must be others besides the confused Susan who knew me, but management tended to speak to staff like they referred to someone else and the rest of the workforce kept solemnly quiet in fear of attracting attention. The security guards that wandered the corridors often nodded a hello and offered a weather update as they passed me by, but I suspected they'd give the exact same treatment to a balloon with a face drawn on it.

So long as I turned up when expected, stayed for the pre-agreed hours and spent the day fielding calls from displeased customers, I essentially got left to my own devices.

I strategically timed my many trips to the free tea machine to avoid lingering behind a sociable fool fighting to make thirty cups all with slightly different specifications. Occasionally I'd have some water instead.

-

I saw my desk across the office, located to the left of the middle near one of the many pillars which held the rest of the building up. My own island in the ocean of wasting lives.

I made the most of my 'staring into space' time walking to it across the expansive floor. Outside, as viewed through thin windows and slatted blinds, appeared rather nice in comparison to indoors, with its