Cape Zero- the Fall Read online

  The woman, too frightened to do anything, backed away. Peter aimed his pistol at the boy and as he applied pressure to the trigger, he whispered, ‘I’m sorry, David.’

  11. Mercy

  Hope had become scarce. The small reason for living was not even a reason at all, but more of a reflex. Few only fought and ran due to age old instincts, hard to break. Others just gave up altogether. Most were already dead. No longer were there any flags, or fancy titled individuals playing dress up. There was no future for the Grove, and no more reason to play Smith’s make-believe.

  Everyone had lost home, many just giving up. Peter didn’t feel despair. With all the death around him, all the loss, all he could feel was anger. Anger at the world, anger at a God, anger at anything he could think of. He didn’t care for anything, just that he could not stand and accept a world this terrible.

  There were only a few left with him, probably the only ones left in the entire Grove not shambling and seeking flesh. Their faces were pained, bloodied and sweating. Expressions of shock had eventually turned to terror and now had settled either on anxious determination or calm acceptance of what was about to be their fate.

  The hammering on the door stopped, but they had soon learned that this was not a good sign. The sound of many hurried footsteps echoed from the other side of the door. They braced themselves just before the mass of zombies attempted to batter down the door again. The attacks were co-ordinated and timed, meant to throw them off guard.

  Peter was reminded of something he had noted down what seemed a lifetime ago. He remembered now. These were not like the zombies from books, movies and games. They could think. But just because they could think didn’t mean they could rationalize.

  The door they held was of solid wood. The only reason it had not collapsed so soon was that the hallway led into a chokepoint, meaning that zombies could only attack the door two or three at a time. Without this tactical advantage, the survivors would have been dead long ago. Peter could not help but laugh. His life has been saved so many times over this year by doors and hallways! It was ironic that the only thing keeping humanity alive was a piece of wood on a swivel.

  As much as the advantage had given them room to breathe, however, it was just delaying the inevitable. The door could not hold up much longer and eventually, it would fall – scarred and bloodied hands reaching in to grab them and pull them into the abyss.

  Many of their group had retreated to the last safe haven in the Grove. Peter was not even sure if that safe haven had not been overrun already. For all they knew, they were truly the last ones left.

  Silence again, followed by footsteps. Peter braced himself, and so did the man and woman with him. Impact. The hinges held, but after the sounds of cracking, the scarred and broken arm of an Infected crashed through the door. They had gotten through.

  Leaving just the woman and Peter, the man, sweating ferociously in this fire-lit room, ran.

  Peter swore, looking around the room for something to use as a means to push the arm through. A broom was leaning a few meters away from the doorway. Leaning out, he grabbed onto it. Just as he turned, he heard screaming from the woman. Her arm was caught in the door and Peter could already see blood pouring down the rest of her arm and starting to appear around her eyes. She was Infected. As much as he hated himself for it, he couldn’t help but run.

  He fled the doorway, allowing the zombies to break it down for good, pouring through. Peter did not turn back. For all he knew, the last holdout of humanity in the Grove – no, the Southern Suburbs, had fallen.

  While running, Peter crossed paths with many zombies. For once, he did not need to take any infected lives as the zombies were content to dine on their present feasts. One of which was the man who had retreated from him earlier. Peter couldn’t help but feel pity for the now devoured man, even if he was a coward.

  The infected flooded the building and had consumed almost all of the once proud Grove’s population. For once, it seemed, the horde’s hunger was abated.

  Peter ran; it was all he could do. The smell of smoke and death still flooded the halls, but the screaming had stopped. Even the zombies no longer moaned. They were content to dine on their prize. All that could be heard was his feet as they came down on the tiles of the hallway. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore. All he could do was keep on running, hoping that instinct would guide him.

  He stopped, almost mechanically, as the hallway ended. What he faced now was the door to the last refuge of the Keep. Behind this door was either the final proof of the Knighthood’s demise, or their possible survival. He knocked.

  There was no answer. Saddened, Peter turned to walk away. The door opened.

  Peter had to blink at the sudden light. He had been running through dark halls for so long that the light seemed foreign, almost hostile. His vision began to clear and as it did, a figure in front of him progressively became more detailed, until finally it spoke.

  ‘By God, Peter! How the hell are you still walking?’ Andrew looked concerned and disbelieving. He too looked worse for wear, his hair dirty and matted down with sweat, dried blood staining the side of his face from where he had been cut or hit. But the one thing that would have worried Peter was not there. Andrew bore no evidence of being bitten.

  Peter didn’t answer and instead stumbled past Andrew who made way for him. The room he entered was one which had been built by the Knighthood after securing the holdout, and had not existed during its days as a school. For such a hasty construction, it looked sound. About ten weary faces looked up at him as he entered, but there was only one he knew.

  Grandmaster Smith sat in a scavenged office chair flanked by two guards wielding shivs. He was pale and all evidence of the charismatic and proud leader was gone. Instead, his only noticeable trait was a festering bloody wound on his leg.

  The man, who Peter admired more than any other living man, opened his eyes and brought them up to look around. The eyes were not glazed over. Smith would not succumb to infection that fast.

  As Peter came closer, Smith spoke, his voice strained, but still carrying evidence of the leader he once was. ‘Mr Swart, I suspected you would have pulled through. You aren’t one to simply give up, like the rest here.’

  Peter didn’t reply. He stood a few metres from the Grandmaster. He kept his distance, just in case.

  ‘It is wise to stay away, Mr Swart. This is what I have told my guards, but they do not listen. Their love is so pure that they forget the truth. Their kindness is too great that it may very well cause the death of everyone in this room. I fabricated this order, with all its pretence and fancy words, to distract people from the pain. I wanted to give them hope, but it seems I was too effective. I have told them to let me die – for alas, unlike you, I have to give up this fight – but they will not have it. I’m not old, you see, but in this new world, it seems that I have lived my life. There is only one more step for me, and I don’t wish to take that step. I have served these people for the time that God has allotted me, and it seems that that has run out. It seems that even God’s will may not hold sway in this world.’

  Smith started coughing, bringing up a little blood in the process. He brought a tissue up to his face to wipe it away.

  ‘We don’t have much time. I’m almost gone, but I have one favour to ask. I took care of many people after the Knighthood secured the Grove, but above all of them, I remembered you. You were one of the few who had managed to survive for so long without the need of companionship. You alone managed to survive that Day with no aid. I took you in not to help you, but because I knew a day like this would come, and I would be in need of someone to act as a lone wolf in this dead city. Will do you a favour for me?’

  Peter hesitated, and then nodded.

  Relieved, Smith continued. ‘The day that David disappeared, we knew that we weren’t the only ones left. I suspect that if any holdouts have prospered like this one, they will be in the South, in Simon’s Town. I want you to take my people
there, but only the ones who wish it. Many of those here may take different paths, and that is their choice. It is no one’s place to dictate the paths that people take in life. I need you to travel to that now Dead Coast for a reason other than the safety of my people.’

  Smith coughed again. There was more blood this time. The Grandmaster was even paler; his voice was hoarse.

  ‘Warn them, Swart. Warn the last of our kind that there are more than zombies in Cape Zero, and that they will need vigilance – more than we had here.’

  Peter nodded. It was the least he could do for a man such as Smith.

  ‘Now, kill me.’

  ‘I…I don’t want to, Grandmaster,’ Peter barely whispered.

  ‘Want has no place here. We do what we must because we must. Do me one final favour, besides that which you have promised me. Let me leave this world without becoming one of them.’

  Peter understood. Of course, any person who had faced the infection would understand, but Peter also understood the temperament of the people who had refused to kill Smith. The man was a leader to them, a saviour. Killing him meant the finale of their haven.

  Peter drew his pistol. He ejected the cartridge. One round left.

  Placing it back into the gun and loading the round into the chamber, he aimed the pistol. Sadly, Smith’s guards backed away.

  Smith looked up, hopefully. His face was white, his mouth stained with blood. He would not last any longer. Peter applied pressure to the trigger.

  Smith spoke, barely even a whisper. ‘Thank you.’

  Peter fired.

  12. Escape

  Smoke emanated from the tip of his gun while the bloody hole drilled through the forehead of the Grandmaster dripped blood onto the seat. The pale corpse, seconds away from succumbing to infection, was a risk no more. The man who was once their leader sat slumped in his chair, blood staining his head and chair.

  Peter almost dropped the pistol. He only held it by the tip of his fingers. He couldn’t believe what he had done. He knew it was necessary, but never did he think he would have to do it.

  Grandmaster Smith was their leader, their saviour. Never did any of them ever suspect that he would succumb to the infection. It seemed that they were all correct, as he had instead fallen to the bullet of his own compatriots. Peter knew it was necessary, but he would still not forgive himself for what he had done, and he felt that neither would those around him.

  The room seemed to be steeped in a foreboding silence. As it subsided, hisses and growling could be heard from outside the room. Stunned from what Peter had done, it took Andrew a while before realising that he had left the door open. He turned and shut the door with a bang.

  ‘Zombies - heading up the stairs!’

  Most of the survivors showed signs of dismay, but a few merely showed acceptance. They had come to expect death. Their faces were blank, but peaceful. Peter envied them, but also pitied them. They were content with this situation, but that acceptance of their fates had been brought on through pain and loss. Peter had felt pain and loss, but he was not ready to die.

  He holstered his pistol - it was useless now. As much as it strained him and violated his nature, Peter knew that these people needed a leader if they were to survive.

  Raising his voice, he spoke. ‘All those who were loyal to the Grandmaster, follow me. Pick up weapons, but abandon amenities. It will be hard, but we need to escape the Grove. It is our only hope. Barricade the door and then flee!’

  Even those who had glared at him for what he had done listened. They rushed to the door, lifting up chairs and tables to pile against the door. Even the Grandmaster’s chair was used, leaving his corpse lying on the floor.

  Peter stared at the corpse. The thought of leaving such a man to be devoured like discarded meat was almost unbearable, but they couldn’t just take the corpse with them. Speed was their priority. It was then that he noticed a carton sitting in the corner. Previously, it had been blocked off by piled up chairs and boxes, but now was uncovered. He lifted it up, sniffing it. The sharp smell of petrol invaded his nostrils.

  Petrol was one of the rarest resources in the city, but was it not him that said that they should abandon all resources, only bringing their weapons? With petrol, their group could commandeer a vehicle, cook food or keep warm. It would make their lives infinitely better for a while, but that was if they got out alive.

  No, the petrol was valuable, but as Peter heard the familiar banging of fists on the door, he knew that they would not be able to escape with it. That did not mean it would not have its use. Grandmaster Smith would get the death he deserved and the zombies would be incinerated.

  The group had finished barricading the entrance and was in the process of crowding around him, holding weapons ranging from shivs to tools adjusted to become much more deadly. They whispered to each other, waiting for his orders. Peter grimaced slightly. He did not want this. He never wanted this. Others were meant to be the leaders.

  ‘The infected will be in here any minute. Our only option is to get to the roof and then to the eastern watch post where we can escape into the city. After that, we assess our options.’

  The group continued to stare idly at him.

  He gritted his teeth, and in a much sterner and louder voice, shouted. ‘Go!’

  The group jumped into action. The guard raised a ladder, then allowed the group to climb up in order. They did not need Peter’s direction in that regard.

  As they ascended, Peter lifted the corpse of his leader and placed it on the pile of furniture which had been placed upon the door. The banging was easy to ignore; he had had to endure it for what seemed like a lifetime. He backed away.

  In this position, the Grandmaster looked like an angel, his arms spread out. Peter knew he was idolising the man, but could anyone blame him? In times of trouble, one needed someone to look up to. Peter had never been religious, but in the Grandmaster and the Knighthood, he had found faith.

  He poured the petrol over the angel and the barricade until not a drop was left. Feeling around in his pocket, he felt a small twig. He took out the match and then turned to see if everyone was out of the room. He was the only one left.

  Peter backed away from the barricade, just as cracking could be heard on the other side. He lit the match and tossed it onto the angel. The flames shot up almost instantly, engulfing the Grandmaster and the barricade. The mindless horde on the other side would charge aimlessly into this death-trap.

  He turned away from the inferno and climbed the ladder. The fresh morning air was pleasant, and even without the fires of the night, the darkness was waning. Once atop the roof, he gave a harsh kick to the ladder, sending it tumbling to the floor. The fire would eventually engulf the entire keep; they would have to run.

  It seemed that the other survivors had had the same idea, and were already fleeing east. Their indistinct figures were hazy as they sped down the rooftops. Andrew was the only one who had waited for him. Peter felt a small appreciation for the man, but had come to expect such kindnesses from him. After taking a deep breath, Peter ran, Andrew following.

  What seemed like seconds after they had escaped the Keep, the building collapsed, killing any infected who had entered, as well as blocking the entrance to the rooftops. They were safe.

  They slowed from their sprint to a light run, but continued with haste. The sun was rising; they had been fighting all night. Peter knew that once his adrenaline subsided, he would definitely collapse from exhaustion. He would have to make sure he was safe by then.

  As it had seemed for most things this night, the run to the eastern watchtower seemed to take forever. Maybe it was the sudden quiet or the feeling of calm after the storm. Peter couldn’t place his finger on it, but all he knew was that time seemed much longer than it actually was this morning.

  Running, jumping, sliding and falling had become monotonous as they traversed the Grove’s rooftops, refraining from starting out onto the grounds to where they would see the destructi
on of their people.

  A sense of relief flooded Peter when they finally spotted the shanty-like structure of the Eastern Watchtower. It was too early to be sure, but the scene was as he had suspected. Free of zombies. With the horrors of last night, most, if not all, of the zombies would be within the Grove. The streets would be safe, if only for a while.

  Andrew and Peter slowed to almost a shuffle; they panted from the exertion, the prospect of safety allowing them to stop and breathe. Peter wheezed furiously as a gust of wind blew past them, cooling the sweat which seemed to have soaked them from head to toe. It was refreshing, but with it, Peter could not help but feel a sense of foreboding.

  He did not know what he feared, but for some reason, the voice in his head was shouting. ‘Keep your head down!’

  As much as it was rude and cynical, Peter had learnt to trust that voice in these sort of situations.

  He tapped Andrew on his shoulder, getting his attention. He made a motion to keep low and quiet. Andrew looked perplexed, but complied.

  They advanced quietly and stealthily towards the edge of the rooftop, using a low wall as cover. As they reached the edge, Peter heard what sounded faintly like the sound of buzzing. Not insect buzzing, but something he could not place his finger on.

  Muffled voices accompanied each buzz. This happened for a while, and then finally stopped. All sound had seemed to stop, even the wind had abated.

  Peter raised his head. Standing over the corpses of what were the survivors of the Grove, were eight armed men garbed in military outfits. They were each equipped with a rifle, suppressors on the front. Their faces were covered with gas masks.

  As much as they were intimidating, they were not the object of Peter’s attention, however – as standing in conversation with what seemed like the leader of the group was a short man wearing a beanie and sporting a filthy beard.

  The group finally disbanded. The officer and four of his men entered what looked to be an old armoured car and the bearded man with three soldiers entering another. They drove off in opposite directions, the officer heading north and the bearded man heading south.