Year of the Zombie (Book 8): Scratch by David Moody

 
    The body of the early morning swimmer had been
facedown in the sand long enough for any footprints to have been washed away.
He lay on the beach like a washed-up jellyfish. Flabby and unnaturally pale,
wearing unflattering speedos and not a lot else. Lank hair splayed like
seaweed.
    Colin walked the dog
here every morning, whatever the weather. He liked to see what the surf had
dredged up. He’d found plenty before now, but never anything like this. Even
from this distance he could tell that the man on the sand was dead. It was the
way he was lying there with his right arm unnaturally buckled, folded under his
bulk, and how he failed to react when the ice-cold waves scampered up the beach
and tickled the wrinkled soles of his feet.
    Arnold, Colin’s dog,
couldn’t contain his excitement. He bolted. ‘Come back here, you little shit,’
Colin yelled after him, but Arnold wasn’t having any of it. He sprinted over to
the corpse and sniffed around the dead man’s face, burying his muzzle under his
chin and pushing upwards.
    Colin finally caught up
and grabbed his dog by the scruff and reattached his lead.
    He stood a little way
back from the cadaver, uncertain. He glanced over his shoulder to check if
anyone else was around, keen to find someone else to share the burden of his
grim early morning discovery, but there was no one. The beach was deserted; the
early hour and heavy clouds confining holiday-makers to their caravans and
tents. He thought about just walking away, but when he looked down and saw his
heavy footprints in the sand leading up to this point, he knew it would be
impossible to disappear and pretend he’d never been here. He really could have
done without this. He came down to the beach each morning to clear his head and
de-stress. Finding a washed-up stiff was the very last thing he needed.
    Wait. Was the man
actually dead? The fact he hadn’t moved and wasn’t reacting either to the cold
or his badly injured arm indicated he most likely was, but Colin thought he
should do his civic duty and check. He fished his phone from his pocket and
crouched down. He dialled 999, and as he waited for someone to answer he
gingerly shook the body and checked for signs of breathing. He noticed three
vicious-looking marks on the man’s exposed right shoulder. Bloody gouges. Deep,
raking scratches.
    Still no answer, just
ringing in his ear. He checked the display then cancelled the call and dialled
999 again.
    Arnold was acting up,
keen to keep moving. He made a dash for the water and Colin pulled him back,
almost losing his balance. He cursed his dog who then ran the other way,
jumping the corpse. The second change of direction caught Colin off-guard and
he fell back, landing on his backside in the damp sand almost on top of the
dead man. He swore again and let go of the dog, then tried the phone a third
time. Still no answer. Bugger.
    There was something
moving in the scratches on the man’s back. Colin thought it was his eyes
playing tricks at first, but when he looked a little closer he could see
teeming movement. Hundreds of tiny, writhing things. They looked like minute,
translucent maggots; almost amoeba-like in their simplicity. A visible
infection.
    He knew it was a stupid
thing to do, but he did it just the same. Phone gripped tight in one hand, with
the outstretched fingers of the other he prodded dead flesh. He jumped out of
his skin and scrambled back to his feet when the corpse reacted. The longest of
the three scratches appeared to move in response to his touch. It briefly
closed up then pulled apart and widened again like a grotesque and impossible
sneer.
    Colin staggered away,
looking around frantically for help but still seeing no one. With 999 still
ringing out unanswered, he tried another number. He called home, hoping Marj
would come to his rescue as she usually did.
    By the time his wife
picked up the call, Colin had dropped the phone and it was lost in the surf.
    The corpse was