Till Undeath Do Us Part: first scene

Here’s the full, unedited text of the first scene.

For more, see the book page for Till Undeath Do Us Part for all the links.

Scene 1

“I love you. I—” And he was down, lost in a foaming, tangled maelstrom of angry limbs. They had him. They had Josh. I looked back for a second and thought I saw his arm reach out for help: but it was too late. I ran on. It was all I could do now. He was gone, it was gone, we were gone. All I could do was run, and warn, and hope. Tears fell; please god let him be dead. Let him stay dead.

We were on Burrell’s Walk, near Grange Road. There’s a fork in the path; we’d been outflanked, out-thought. We’d taken the shortest path towards the University Library. They hadn’t. I’d barely escaped, snagged by a flailing, grabbing, bloody arm. I’d kicked back, heard a wet snap — arm, jaw, I didn’t care — and stumbled, nearly on my knees, but free. And alive, still. Running.

The path was poorly lit but so familiar from day after day of early morning training I could run it on autopilot. I could measure the seasons by the blossom, the flowers, the fallen leaves. There were usually only bikes to dodge — the cycle of shame at that time of day — for the couple of hundred metres almost dead straight through the tunnel of trees to Queen’s Road. Little chance of an ambush: imposing black iron fences on both sides and only one or two gates to get the jitters about. I kept my eyes and ears wide open. Fight or flight? Fucking flight.

Damn it Josh. Why did you have to do it? Why now?

No time for that.

I glanced back again and again as I neared the library, that hideous, glorious thirties pastiche of a crematorium. No sign of them. Was that a good thing? Were they feeding on Josh? Or were they waiting for me at the library gate, swarming around the entrance? I could hardly turn back. Whatever these things were, whatever they’d become, they were clever, they could run, they could run fast, but they weren’t superhuman. They were mad scientists. Mad zombie scientists.

I could hear Josh’s voice as he’d said it, a few hours before in the lab out west at the Cavendish. “Mad zombie scientists,” with that laugh of his, emphasising the zombie with jazz hands and bug eyes. And then it had gone madly wrong. A violent reaction, then two, then a third, a room fizzing with surprise and shouts, an attack, a bite. Raw panic. Too many people, too few precautions, too late for all that now. No way to contain it. To the corridor, to the entrance hall, to the cosy, landscaped, spotlit gardens outside: pick a direction. Any direction. All we could do was run.

We’d headed towards town. Safety in numbers, we’d thought. The night sky was thick with rolling orange-black cloud, as dark as Cambridge’s light pollution allows. Dark enough almost to spook us. But once we’d passed the fields and tennis courts and reached Adams Road and civilisation we’d slowed to a walk, believing we had time to think. I don’t know why. Madness. I guess it’s because of the rowing — we have the stamina, the strength, the confidence. There’s no way anyone can keep pace with us. Hubris, you little shit.

And then we’d heard them. No film-zombie moan, this: a fearsome growl, almost a howl. An angry wolf scratching and scrabbling with a leg snapped in a trap, crying in anguish. Gnawing off its own limb to escape. Finding unknown strength. A sound I didn’t think humans could make.

If only we hadn’t stopped, hadn’t looked back. If only we’d simply kept moving. I remember Josh tapping me brightly on the shoulder twice and whispering something. It was lost in thumping blood. Maybe he’d had a plan, a spark of genius to save us; whatever it was, it started with a sprint. The road was an endless pattern of parked cars: no escape route left or right, no time to knock politely on someone’s door and beg for refuge. As if that would help.

With the inhuman sounds closing rapidly upon us we’d rushed head down between the rows of vehicles, keeping to the white centre line, and then slammed straight across Grange Road not caring about any traffic. I wish there’d been some — it might have bought us precious time. Then Burrell’s Walk to the library. We’d picked the closer of the two spurs at this end — the quicker route. Some of them had followed us. Some of them.

Was Josh one of them now? Or lifeless, still, silent, his steaming organs smeared red and brown over the tarmac? I tried to banish that vision as I passed the library gate. Perhaps they’d spot the library and go in — once a scientist, always a scientist, after all. Maybe they’d all pile in and wreck the place, wild packs of mad zombie librarians baying for silence, hunting down the secret shaggers in all the usual places. Then we could lock the doors and call in the military. Burn the fucker down, go back to normal, back to how it was before. Except, except…

Josh wasn’t there, and it was impossible anyway, you cretin, and I had to make a plan, my own plan, for my own survival. Soon I’d reach Queen’s Road: then what? Hijack a car? Push straight on, over the bridge into the centre of town? Back to college? I had to warn my friends, everyone, before it was too late. If it wasn’t already too late.

My head overflowed, pounding with thoughts. Consequences. They must surely be spreading out in all directions, I thought. Every bite, every kill, made another. Like cell division, one, two, four, eight, sixteen, but worse. I’m no mathmo but I know what exponential means. The only limit is the population. This was like a fireball, a fireball of the undead, expanding from the Cavendish, north, south, east, west. I was a few frantic steps ahead of the flames, my collar already singed, my Josh…

I came alongside the Clare College building and the ever-present patchwork of posters attached to its railings: flyers for gigs, concerts, plays, talks, films, the social merry-go-rounds of student life. One was promoting Othello at Downing. I’d wanted to see that. I’d mentioned it to Josh earlier.

Reality jolted me again.

Queen’s Road. In daylight it streams with cars and people goggling at the colleges hugging the river along the Backs, like Trinity, Clare, and King’s — my college. Tonight it was quiet; no traffic at all. Jesus, where was a bus full of sacrificial tourists when you needed one? I guess it was pretty late, around midnight. I stopped nervously, needing a breath, ears honed for any noise but filled with the sound of my own breathing, my own pounding blood. I was constantly turning, turning, trusting nothing but my eyes. The path behind was dark, silent, brooding. I couldn’t wait more than a few seconds; I couldn’t risk it. Which way now? Too many choices. I looked back, looked left, looked ahead, looked right, fists balled. Steady breathing. Focus, don’t panic. Think, Olly. Come on, Ollyflower—