Aftermath

and waited. A second corpse walked toward the light, tripping over the torso of the first and landing at Jackson’s feet on all fours in the slush. Before it had a chance to move he attacked it, slamming the hammerhead down onto the back of its skull, squashing it almost paper-thin. The force, speed, and precision of his attack was such that the creature remained exactly where it was, hunched forward at his feet as if it was praying for mercy.
    There were more of them coming. Jackson looked back over his shoulder at Jas and the others, then turned back and swung the hammer around again, shattering the pelvis of another cadaver.
    “Let’s move,” he ordered. “I’m not doing this by myself.”
    *   *   *
     
    The seven men—Driver included, despite his frantic attempts to stay behind the wheel—were standing in the middle of the mall, waiting for orders by a dried-up fountain. The sun had broken through again outside. There was a glass ceiling directly above them, but what was left of the snow prevented anything more than a fraction of the usual morning light from getting inside. There were bodies trapped in some of the shops around them—workers who’d died before trading had begun on the last day of their lives. Now they watched the living, clawing at the glass to be released, some even trying to bite at the windows, all of them desperate to get out and attack.
    “We should split into two groups,” Jackson suggested. “Me, Kieran, Driver, and Harte. Jas, you take the others.”
    Jas didn’t move. He was staring into a nearby newsagent’s where a dead woman wearing a red-and-white-checked apron tripped around the remains of a trashed window display; falling then picking herself back up, falling again, then getting up … again and again. Ainsworth, as nervous as hell and keen to get out, made the first move. As he approached the door of the shop, the woman became even more animated. She lurched forward, then took a few unsteady steps back.
    “Go on, then,” Bayliss said, egging him on but still holding back with Jas. Ainsworth didn’t move. Neither did Jas. Bayliss bged past them both. “For fuck’s sake, it can’t be that difficult. She’s dead.”
    He shoved the door open and grabbed at the woman as she came toward him. She managed to duck away from him at first—more through luck than anything else—but she had no way of matching his strength and speed. He caught her arm then pulled her closer and wrapped his gloved hand tight around her neck. He spun her around through almost a complete circle, then threw her back up against the window and let her drop. She slid down the dirty glass, leaving behind a thick but uneven trail of brown-black blood. Jas stepped over her sprawled legs and began clearing the shelves.
    Harte, still standing by the fountain, watching events unfold in the newsagent’s, realized he was alone. He looked around and saw that Jackson and the others were breaking into a small “metro” supermarket. As they smashed their way inside, a group of bodies fought their way out. They crowded on the other side of the glass, squabbling among themselves, baying for blood. He took a deep breath and readied himself for the fight.

 
     
    19
     
    The two groups of men worked with frantic speed to clear out their allotted stores. Each of them adopted the same simple strategy: break in, deal with any corpses still strong enough to cause problems, then strip the shelves. Once the initial trepidation at being this close to active bodies again had dissipated, the hard work began to feel unexpectedly cathartic. Being occupied like this—doing something inherently worthwhile for once—was a welcome break from the norm. When they stopped and regrouped at the truck almost two hours later, their nervousness immediately returned. Time had passed quickly while they’d been working, and the situation outside had changed.
    “That one’s moved,” Bayliss said, pointing at the remains of a corpse lying in the middle of the street. Harte knew he was right. He couldn’t remember having seen it before. As they watched, it slowly moved its legs, digging in with its feet, and half-crawled, half-shuffled a few inches farther. The level of its decay was such that it was difficult to make out any real detail. It glistened with water and patches of ice, and the entire corpse was a grotesque fecal brown. The damn thing looked like it had been dunked in tar.
    “So what if it has moved?”