your time. There’s no rush.”
Webb continued to look deep into the endless mass of loathsome figures, eyeing up potential opponents for the one-sided sparring session he was planning. He knew it didn’t matter which monstrosity he plucked from the crowd—one worthless, maggot-ridden, decaying piece of shit was the same as the next. Running forward, he peeled a previously prepared section of the wire fence back in on itself, scrambled through the hole he’d made, and then jogged out toward the corpses. He climbed up onto the crumpled bonnet of an old black taxi, then reached down and grabbed the shoulders of the nearest body. He lifted its light, withered frame and, in a single movement, threw it over the taxi and back toward the hole in the fence through which he’d just emerged. It landed in an undignified heap in the dust, arms and legs everywhere, then immediately dragged itself up and began to stagger back in his direction. He paid it little attention, concentrating instead on plucking more writhing creatures from the crowd. Many vicious, thrashing hands reached up into the air as if volunteering for slaughter. He ignored them as he quickly hauled another four diseased figures over onto the other side of the blockade. He herded them back toward his arena. For the most part they conveniently followed him and he shoved each of them down through the gap when they were close enough. If they tried to retaliate or resist he simply threw them to the ground, then kicked and punched them through to the other side of the fence.
“Fuck me, look at that one!” Stokes laughed as Webb forced the last cadaver through the hole in the mesh. “No arms!” Howling with laughter he pointed at the naked remains of a middle-aged woman which stumbled back toward Webb as he closed and secured the fence. The pitiful carcass had somehow managed to lose both arms, one at the shoulder and the other just below the elbow. The longer of its two stumps twitched angrily. “Christ, Webb, fighting a dead woman with no arms? You really know how to pick them, don’t you! You bloody idiot!”
“Piss off,” Webb snapped as he sized up his wretched opponents. He picked up his baseball bat and watched the five empty shells as they slowly lumbered across the wasteland toward him. Their already awkward and unsteady gait was worsened by the uneven ground beneath their decaying feet. Several of them fell as they moved toward him, hitting the dirt with force and immediately hauling themselves back up again, not a flicker of emotion showing on their grotesque, deformed faces. Stokes watched closely as he slugged back his beer, lifting his legs out of the way as one of the creatures stumbled uncomfortably near.
“Take your time,” he instructed, stifling a gassy belch and lowering his voice when the body that had just passed him turned back and shuffled toward him again. “Nothing clever, son, just take your time.”
Webb wasn’t listening. He’d already chosen his first victim. He advanced quickly toward the shell of a six-week-dead firefighter. It looked vaguely comical in its oversize protective jacket. It might have fitted once, but weeks of emaciation had reduced the size and bulk of the body considerably so that it now looked like a child that had stolen the jacket from a dressing-up box. Its helmet had slipped off its shrunken head and now hung around its neck by the strap. With a sudden roar of exertion Webb swung his baseball bat around in a climbing arc, thumping it up into the dead firefighter’s chin. The force of impact flung the body up into the air. It crashed down at the feet of another shambling corpse. Webb rushed toward both of them with predatory speed, planting his boot on the chest of the body on the deck and swinging a wild punch at the other creature. More through luck than judgment he caught it full-on square in the face with maximum force. His leather-gloved hand sunk deep into its flesh. He quickly pulled it back again
Webb continued to look deep into the endless mass of loathsome figures, eyeing up potential opponents for the one-sided sparring session he was planning. He knew it didn’t matter which monstrosity he plucked from the crowd—one worthless, maggot-ridden, decaying piece of shit was the same as the next. Running forward, he peeled a previously prepared section of the wire fence back in on itself, scrambled through the hole he’d made, and then jogged out toward the corpses. He climbed up onto the crumpled bonnet of an old black taxi, then reached down and grabbed the shoulders of the nearest body. He lifted its light, withered frame and, in a single movement, threw it over the taxi and back toward the hole in the fence through which he’d just emerged. It landed in an undignified heap in the dust, arms and legs everywhere, then immediately dragged itself up and began to stagger back in his direction. He paid it little attention, concentrating instead on plucking more writhing creatures from the crowd. Many vicious, thrashing hands reached up into the air as if volunteering for slaughter. He ignored them as he quickly hauled another four diseased figures over onto the other side of the blockade. He herded them back toward his arena. For the most part they conveniently followed him and he shoved each of them down through the gap when they were close enough. If they tried to retaliate or resist he simply threw them to the ground, then kicked and punched them through to the other side of the fence.
“Fuck me, look at that one!” Stokes laughed as Webb forced the last cadaver through the hole in the mesh. “No arms!” Howling with laughter he pointed at the naked remains of a middle-aged woman which stumbled back toward Webb as he closed and secured the fence. The pitiful carcass had somehow managed to lose both arms, one at the shoulder and the other just below the elbow. The longer of its two stumps twitched angrily. “Christ, Webb, fighting a dead woman with no arms? You really know how to pick them, don’t you! You bloody idiot!”
“Piss off,” Webb snapped as he sized up his wretched opponents. He picked up his baseball bat and watched the five empty shells as they slowly lumbered across the wasteland toward him. Their already awkward and unsteady gait was worsened by the uneven ground beneath their decaying feet. Several of them fell as they moved toward him, hitting the dirt with force and immediately hauling themselves back up again, not a flicker of emotion showing on their grotesque, deformed faces. Stokes watched closely as he slugged back his beer, lifting his legs out of the way as one of the creatures stumbled uncomfortably near.
“Take your time,” he instructed, stifling a gassy belch and lowering his voice when the body that had just passed him turned back and shuffled toward him again. “Nothing clever, son, just take your time.”
Webb wasn’t listening. He’d already chosen his first victim. He advanced quickly toward the shell of a six-week-dead firefighter. It looked vaguely comical in its oversize protective jacket. It might have fitted once, but weeks of emaciation had reduced the size and bulk of the body considerably so that it now looked like a child that had stolen the jacket from a dressing-up box. Its helmet had slipped off its shrunken head and now hung around its neck by the strap. With a sudden roar of exertion Webb swung his baseball bat around in a climbing arc, thumping it up into the dead firefighter’s chin. The force of impact flung the body up into the air. It crashed down at the feet of another shambling corpse. Webb rushed toward both of them with predatory speed, planting his boot on the chest of the body on the deck and swinging a wild punch at the other creature. More through luck than judgment he caught it full-on square in the face with maximum force. His leather-gloved hand sunk deep into its flesh. He quickly pulled it back again
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