Read Online When There's No More room In Hell: A Zombie Novel by Luke Duffy - Free Book Online
Authors: Luke Duffy
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top of the eye pieces that were still free of the condensation. He could see the dimly lit street ahead of him and the light from the street lamps above. He ran directly down the middle of the road, the parked cars to his left and right helping as a channel to follow in his poor visibility.
His breathing was constricted due to the heavy riot gear that he wore , and the fact that he had to suck his air intake through a relatively small hole which was then restricted even further with filters inside the respirator. He could hear his own loud, short breaths within the confined and humid respirator that seemed to suck at his face like a squid.
His legs were burning and he pumped his arms to try and keep his speed up. But he began to slow, his chest heaving and his heart threatening to burst.
He turned a corner and found himself in an empty street on the outskirts of an industrial area. He slowed to a brisk walk and moved toward the shadows of a shuttered doorway. Leaning with one hand, propping himself up against the cold bricks, he tore at the respirator and lifted it from his face and over his head. The cool night air hit him and it felt good on his hot flushed skin.
He was dripping with sweat and sucking in the air as fast and deep as he could. His head began to spin and he felt the bile rising in his chest. From nerves, fear and exertion he couldn’t control it and he spewed the contents of his stomach all over the wall in front of him.
He had no water and the taste of sick was soon replaced with a dry parched mouth that threatened to seize up on him, like a machine drained of oil. His lips were dry and his tongue felt swollen. Tony looked around, then walked to the curb and reached his hand into a small dirty puddle that had collected at the edge of the road. He scooped up a palm of water and slurped it up, swilling his mouth to gain moisture as well as rid himself of the taste of vomit. He spat it back out after a few seconds and then repeated the process.
Feeling more composed, he headed back to the corner of the street and looked down the road in the direction he had come from. He couldn’t see anyone else heading his way. Had they all turned back? Was he the only one who ran?
Tony didn't care. After what he had seen, he had no intention of playing the hero and standing firm to help his fellow officers fight the crowd.
He looked down and shook his head. Did I really see those things ? He fought with his inner self and tried to convince himself that he must be mistaken. But he knew he wasn’t. He had seen it.
He turned and walked deeper into the industrial estate. He knew that he would hit the main road on the far side ; he would turn right and that would lead him back to the station after a mile and a half. He didn't care about what would be said when he got there. Questions would be asked about what had happened and why he had run, but he wasn’t concerned about that. Maybe others who had fled had already made it there? There was always a chance that the unit, or what was left of it, had been pulled back and regrouped at the station.
He struggled with his thoughts. He had seen the rioters' crash against the shields. Close up,
he’d seen their faces, which were strange, sick, pale and gaunt. Their eyes had just stared at him, unblinking and vacant; some had eyes that were clouded over, looking like an opaque film covering the lens.
And the noise, that poignant noise they made. It was a lingering low groan that seemed to emit from every one of them. It made him shudder to think about it.
Some of them had horrible injuries too. He was sure he had seen people with eyes missing and even skin ripped away from their faces. He couldn’t remember clearly, but he was certain that one of the people closest to him, attacking his shield like a berserker, had a hand missing. It was just a bloody stump, and his shield had turned red before being finally ripped from his grasp.
The screams of his colleagues still rang
His breathing was constricted due to the heavy riot gear that he wore , and the fact that he had to suck his air intake through a relatively small hole which was then restricted even further with filters inside the respirator. He could hear his own loud, short breaths within the confined and humid respirator that seemed to suck at his face like a squid.
His legs were burning and he pumped his arms to try and keep his speed up. But he began to slow, his chest heaving and his heart threatening to burst.
He turned a corner and found himself in an empty street on the outskirts of an industrial area. He slowed to a brisk walk and moved toward the shadows of a shuttered doorway. Leaning with one hand, propping himself up against the cold bricks, he tore at the respirator and lifted it from his face and over his head. The cool night air hit him and it felt good on his hot flushed skin.
He was dripping with sweat and sucking in the air as fast and deep as he could. His head began to spin and he felt the bile rising in his chest. From nerves, fear and exertion he couldn’t control it and he spewed the contents of his stomach all over the wall in front of him.
He had no water and the taste of sick was soon replaced with a dry parched mouth that threatened to seize up on him, like a machine drained of oil. His lips were dry and his tongue felt swollen. Tony looked around, then walked to the curb and reached his hand into a small dirty puddle that had collected at the edge of the road. He scooped up a palm of water and slurped it up, swilling his mouth to gain moisture as well as rid himself of the taste of vomit. He spat it back out after a few seconds and then repeated the process.
Feeling more composed, he headed back to the corner of the street and looked down the road in the direction he had come from. He couldn’t see anyone else heading his way. Had they all turned back? Was he the only one who ran?
Tony didn't care. After what he had seen, he had no intention of playing the hero and standing firm to help his fellow officers fight the crowd.
He looked down and shook his head. Did I really see those things ? He fought with his inner self and tried to convince himself that he must be mistaken. But he knew he wasn’t. He had seen it.
He turned and walked deeper into the industrial estate. He knew that he would hit the main road on the far side ; he would turn right and that would lead him back to the station after a mile and a half. He didn't care about what would be said when he got there. Questions would be asked about what had happened and why he had run, but he wasn’t concerned about that. Maybe others who had fled had already made it there? There was always a chance that the unit, or what was left of it, had been pulled back and regrouped at the station.
He struggled with his thoughts. He had seen the rioters' crash against the shields. Close up,
he’d seen their faces, which were strange, sick, pale and gaunt. Their eyes had just stared at him, unblinking and vacant; some had eyes that were clouded over, looking like an opaque film covering the lens.
And the noise, that poignant noise they made. It was a lingering low groan that seemed to emit from every one of them. It made him shudder to think about it.
Some of them had horrible injuries too. He was sure he had seen people with eyes missing and even skin ripped away from their faces. He couldn’t remember clearly, but he was certain that one of the people closest to him, attacking his shield like a berserker, had a hand missing. It was just a bloody stump, and his shield had turned red before being finally ripped from his grasp.
The screams of his colleagues still rang
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