The Dark Restarter Page 4

  And just like that, Jess knew she was infected.

  *

  Hal heard the scream ring out across the open courtyard of the park, and realised he’d make a fatal mistake. At the very least, Jess would never forgive him for this. At worst…he shook the negativity from his mind as he unloaded the final rounds from his shotgun into the head of a nearby member of The Restarted, pressing his earpiece before focusing squarely on frantically attempting to reload.

  He was never that great at multi-tasking.

  ‘We need backup, east wing. Jess is in trouble,’ Hal said into the receiver.

  He too was greeted by static, and immediately understood how Jess must have felt, as another representative of the undead lashed out at him. He smashed the hilt of his shotgun into the jaw of his attacker, causing the beast to recoil, then gripped the loading mechanism in his right hand, using the weight of the weapon to reload itself, fully aware of how slick that must have looked.

  Aiming true, he pulled the trigger, the recoil causing minimum discomfort ever since Jon had shown him how to modify it. Brains shot outwards, lining the floor with what he assumed was a foul-smelling viscous goop, not that he had ever actually been in a position to verify that theory.

  Hal made haste towards the east wing, bolted down the alleyway to his right, before finally arriving at the arcade, rummaging in his bag in an attempt to gain purchase on his secret weapon…

  As he reached Jess, he unloaded three rounds in quick succession, taking out the three assailants that were eager to feast on, unbeknownst to Hal, Jess’s now-infected flesh.

  ‘About damn time!’ said Jess, pulling the blade from another of The Restarted.

  ‘Blah blah, you’re fine,’ said Hal unapologetically. ‘You wanna nag some more, or get out of here?’

  Jess hesitated for a fraction longer than was necessary, seemingly unsure on if she was done fighting, but ultimately deciding she could still argue whilst on the move.

  She ran past Hal, who continued to offload some rounds into the heads of what was slowly becoming a hoard, until there were too many of them for him to decide on which to aim at.

  Remaining was suicide, so he shot off after Jess.

  As they made their way back down the main alley, they noted that the route ahead was blocked off. Hal pulled out an old MP3 player equipped with external speakers, quickly scrolling through the playlist until he found a track that resonated with him.

  ‘Nope, nope, ahhhh, perfect,’ said Hal, as he pressed play and threw the device like a grenade into the modest gaggle in front of him.

  The device landed with a flimsy clack, and for a moment Hal worried it might have glitched out on him, but his fears were eradicated as AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” filled the courtyard.

  Hal looked over at Jess, eyes filled with glee.

  She ignored him entirely, as she switched out her humble handgun for an MP4 semi-automatic rifle from Hal’s garishly bright-pink pack.

  The creatures, meanwhile, distracted by the noise coming from the music player, turned their attention away from them, allowing Hal to run past and hit the starter controls on a theme park attraction; a simple machine that rotated one-seater spaceships at varying speeds. The spaceships began to bob up and down, hilariously in time with the music filling the arena of death. Several of the creatures walked into it, beheading themselves in the process.

  ‘Nice,’ said Jess.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hal, somewhat caught off guard by the rare display of praise.

  As they made their way into the central plaza, Brian Johnson’s throaty voice filled their eardrums, doing little to counteract how exposed they now were. Hoards had been drawn to the music from every nook and cranny of the park, leaving them surrounded.

  Now, back to back, they knew this would be their last stand.

  ‘You ready to do this thing?’ said Hal, like a poor man’s action hero.

  ‘I always knew this was how we were going to go out.’

  ‘Armed to the teeth in a blaze of glory?’

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines of dying before you put that shelf up that you promised seven months ago,’ she retorted.

  Hal barked a laugh. ‘Seems kind of a moot point right now sweetie.’

  ‘A cow’s opinion…’

  ‘Hey, you said it,’ joked Hal, intentionally ignoring the “Friends” reference.

  ‘Douche. Where the hell is your brother, anyway?’

  ‘Love you baby. And you know Alex, he’ll be here…’

  They clinked their lead-dispensing conduits of death, and reloaded.

  *

  Jess whirled around like a Dervish, spraying hot lead in a 360-degree arc, taking the legs out from underneath the front line of their attackers, as Hal threw a grenade into the hoard that had congregated to his right, sending body parts flying.

  ‘Dammit Hal, we don’t want crawlers, tone it down!’

  Jess was right; whilst the frag grenade has taken a large amount of The Restarted out of the equation, some had inevitably survived, their legless torsos digging their nails into the ground to drag themselves forward, eager to take a bite out of their ankles. Hal finished them off with headshots, refusing to allow the commentary of his fiancée to distract him from the task at hand.

  Within minutes, the entirety of the undead that were occupying the park had been drawn to them by the gunfire. The wall behind Hal and Jess acted as both a shield to being attacked from behind, as well as a lid to what would soon become their coffin. They couldn’t run forwards, and they couldn’t retreat. They had nowhere to run to.

  As the masses of zombies brought hell itself down upon them, Hal heard the dreaded clack of a dead man’s click; he was out of ammo.

  Jess’s weapon decided to betray her shortly after, jamming entirely. This was it. After months of planning, surviving, and mastering firearms, they were about to join the ranks of the undead.

  Jess pulled out her pistol, checked her clip, and noted the three bullets remaining.

  ‘One each…’ she said, shooting one last zombie to her left for luck.

  ‘We had a good run.’

  As the hoard closed the gap, Hal and Jess didn’t see the point in fighting with knives anymore. There were simply too many to make it out of this alive.

  Their earpieces crackled to life.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, was just grabbing a coffee,’ said a disembodied voice. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Central hub, central hub!’ shouted Jess and Hal in unison.

  ‘Oh man, I love this track!’ said Alex, as the song started its second cycle of its endless loop.

  The chorus was temporarily muted by the sound of a rocket-propelled grenade, which landed several metres in front of them, utterly obliterating a large mass of the undead that were obstructing their escape.

  Alex flew in, sliding on his knees, attaching a slab of remotely detonated C4 to the leg of an unsuspecting ghoul. He jumped to his feet, said “Sup’” to his fellow zombie-slayers, and held up the detonator, it blinked green, and the horde exploded behind him. ‘And for the man who has everything,’ he added, restocking their ammunition and running off back into the fray, equipping a deadly-looking axe and decapitating anything that moved.

  ‘How do you do that again?’ Hal asked into his headset.

  ‘L3 then hold Circle,’ Alex replied happily, his voice partially distorted.

  ‘Right, always forg–’

  A wave of nausea suddenly attacked Hal’s senses, his vision obstructed by an inexplicable sea of fog. He shook his head, and the shunt to his equilibrium evolved into an agonising migraine, causing him to drop his controller.

  A ringing sound broke up the insanity as the pain gradually lessened, before dissipating entirely, and Hal realised it was his phone.

  ‘Dammit Hal,’ said Jess, ‘what’s wrong with you?’

  Hal mumbled apologetically, grabbing his controller from the carpeted floor to resume his responsibilities. He pulled off his hea
dset before getting back into the game as he accepted the call and propped the device between his shoulder and free ear.

  ‘Jurassic Park, how can I direct your call?’ he said into the receiver.

  ‘Hal, we need to talk…’

  ‘Oh, hey Kar’! What’s up?

  ‘Have you heard?’

  Hal could sense an unusual amount of panic in her voice, and a notable level of distress. Horror even.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Hal. ‘Guys, sorry, we need to call it.’

  Both Alex and Jess groaned in disapproval, as Hal put down his controller and walked into the kitchen, his onscreen character dying within seconds.

  ‘Bad time?’ asked Kara.

  ‘Nah,’ lied Hal, ‘just playing COD Zombies, can’t pause an online game.’

  ‘Uh huh, whatever. Listen. Something’s wrong and…I don’t know why I’m calling you really, but–’

  Jess came into the kitchen and Hal mouthed the words “it’s Kara” and she nodded, having already heard as much.

  ‘Don’t be too long,’ said Jess quietly. ‘We need to start getting ready for the funeral anyway.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Hal. ‘I won’t be long–wait. What?’ he added, turning to face her.

  Kara whispered hysterically down the phone to Hal.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you Hal, it’s–’

  What Jess said next made no sense to him at all.

  ‘Peter’s funeral, Hal…’ said Jess, a puzzled look on her face laced with concern that he had seemingly forgotten the funeral of one of their closest friends.

  Hal experienced a violently intense sensation of temporal dysplasia.

  A voice erupted from his phone again, and he was brought back down to whatever Earth he was now stuck on.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you Hal!’ repeated Kara, utterly exasperated.

  ‘I have to go,’ mumbled Hal, hanging up the phone and throwing it onto the kitchen counter.

  ‘You’re fucking with me, right?’ said Hal, not finding the joke funny at all.

  ‘No, I’m not fucking with you. We really do need to get ready…’ said Jess, misunderstanding the question.

  And with that she left him alone and trotted up the stairs, as Shelby plodded into the kitchen, staring up at Hal expectantly for a treat.

  After all, he was in the place where treats lived.

  Hal smiled distractedly and grabbed her a biscuit, flicking it towards her head. Shelby caught it in her mouth flawlessly, then skipped away, her tiny claws clacking against the floor tiles before landing on the carpet of the hallway and allowing her to stealthily leave his sight.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hal to himself. ‘Of course. The funeral.’

  How could he have forgotten?

  On that sour note, he headed upstairs to prepare for an afternoon of mourning the death of a friend he had no idea had died in the first place.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Funeral for a Friend

  Friday, October 5th, 2018, 1:04pm

  It had been six weeks since Hal’s stay at Fir Lodge, and during that time not one person had mentioned to him, not even in passing, that his friend Peter had died.

  He slumped down in the passenger seat of Jess’s car, looking down at his legs. The sun bounced intensely off of his royal blue trousers, and he noticed the left lace on his pristine black shoes had, much like his mind, come undone. Hal sub-consciously acknowledged the clock on the dashboard, electric-blue numbers that were igniting a feeling of anxiety deep within him.

  Attempting to lean down and retie his rogue lace, he was instantly pulled back by the seat belt, and groaned in irritation. Gently loosening the tautness of the belt, he finally had enough leeway to reach down and rectify the problem. As he did so, a beam of sunlight glistened off his silver cufflink, dancing across the blue sleeve of his suit jacket.

  He had panicked when Jess had instructed him to get ready, having felt guilty for apparently blocking out the tragedy that had befallen one of his closest friends, feeling utterly ashamed that he hadn’t so much as purchased a new suit for the occasion. But as he made his way to his wardrobe, a bright blue suit, crisp white shirt, and matching blue tie were waiting for him, all of which still had the price tag affixed to them.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Jess, pulling him back into the present.

  It was bad enough that he was wearing a suit he couldn’t remember buying, but even worse that his past-self had chosen such a garish colour. Wearing electric blue just didn’t feel right for a funeral. He decided to cut himself some slack, taking solace in the fact that he had at least somehow been functional enough to buy a suit at all.

  Hal had taken up Jess’s offer for her to drive, due to him not knowing which church he was meant to be driving to and feeling that asking the question would raise eyebrows. Thus far, judging by the route she was taking, all he knew was that they were heading in the general direction of Bocking town.

  As they pulled into the car park, Hal read the sign for St Mary’s Church.

  ‘You okay?’ said Jess, noticing his almost delirious expression.

  ‘Yeah. Umm…it’s just so much to take in, you know?’ said Hal feebly, neglecting to bolster his proclamation of the obvious with what was really bothering him.

  ‘I know, somehow it feels more real now we’re actually here,’ noted Jess.

  The pair made their way across the courtyard, meeting up with the rest of their friends, who were engaging in the customary small-talk befitting of a situation such as this. Hal caught a few conversations on the wind, things such as “how was your drive”, “traffic was murder”, “traffic wasn’t that bad actually” and his particular favourite; “what a lovely church”, until finally, Jon approached him.

  ‘Hey mate,’ said Jon. ‘Erm…nice suit?’ he added, more of a question than a statement.

  ‘Hey, Jon. Yeah…thanks,’ said Hal, finding himself unable to formulate a more explanatory sentence and desperate for the exchange between them to end.

  Saving him from any further embarrassment, at least for the time being, a woman stepped outside from behind the large, heavy-set entrance doors of the church, and gestured for everyone to take a seat inside.

  *

  As Hal took up a pew, he noticed a leaflet perched inside the cloth pouch that lined the back of the seats of the people sitting in front of him. Forcing his fingers between a haggard-looking bible and the unseen netting within the pouch itself, he plucked the expensive-feeling paper that had been created in memoriam of his friend Peter, and scanned his eyes across the information it contained, trying to restart his failing memory.

  ‘Peter Allen, Born August 19th, 1991, died August 25th, 2018.’

  He stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers, figuring he may need it later. Loosening his tie and resting his arms on his knees, Hal promptly began to lose his shit, simultaneously attempting to regulate his breathing by formulating a mental list of the things that were disturbing him. He decided to start big; how was it possible that he had no recollection of his friend kicking the bucket that was holding his soul quite adequately until two hours ago? Why couldn’t he remember buying this ridiculously inappropriate, yet admittedly perfectly fitting, suit? And why did every funeral start with menacingly oppressive organ music?

  The same woman who invited them into the church took up residence centre stage, and began hosting the sermon.

  ‘We are gathered here today in memory of–’ and she was off, rather unhelpfully leaving out all of the crucial details Hal was looking for. The how, the why, the what’s…instead filling her opening speech with all of the generalised platitudes that only someone who didn’t know Peter like he did would say, as if she were reading them from his Facebook bio. For a fleeting moment he wondered if this Reverend was in on a celestial joke somehow – almost as if she were the mastermind behind it all…

  Hal felt a burning sensation in the back of his head and turned around in an attempt to identify the cause. H
e was greeted by the sight of Kara, staring at him, seemingly trying to utilise some form of telepathy to get him to look at her. Her eyes were wide with an emotion Hal recognised as the onset signs of what was surely insanity.

  He shot her a lame nod, then turned back to face the onslaught of social media reruns being thrown up by the well-meaning host of today’s madness. Suddenly, he turned back to face Kara, or rather, focused his attention on what she wearing; a well-fitting, lightning-blue dress, with a matching fascinator.

  Noting the way in which he was surveying her ensemble, she shifted uneasily in her seat, her face flooding with a high level of embarrassment that caused her cheeks to flush. She shrugged apologetically, then raised an indignant eyebrow, as if to say “you can talk.”

  Hal felt a nudge in his ribs, and turned to his left, disarmed by Jess who nodded towards the Archbishop of Banality before them, indicating that he should be paying attention. He winced apologetically, allowing his eyes to glaze over, safe in the knowledge that he could hide in plain sight for the next presumably billion hours of whatever the hell this thing was.

  But as Fearne took the stage, a sigh escaped his soul as he realised his invisibility was about to be short lived. In fact, things began to escalate so quickly that, by comparison to his current reality, it made even the weirdness levels of Highlander 2 seem like they may have actually contained an internal logic after all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Poet, The Widow, and The Wardrobe

  Friday, October 5th, 2018, 1:27pm