The Undead Day Twenty

by RR Haywood

  They are infected, not immune. This is not discussed.

  What Howie did is not discussed.

  Where they are or where they are going is not discussed.

  Nothing of virtue or significance or importance is discussed because sometimes there is just the company of men, of women and of those that match your soul, spirit and mind.

  Howie sits in the front of café with Clarence, Roy, Reginald and Dave. So positioned to see all the angles of the street outside. They drink coffee and talk quietly in the company of men. The quietness of elders who make decisions that affect the lives of every single person around them. What they do counts. What they say means something. Now they chat quietly of things that hold no importance, of bows, of famous battles, of history and places and peoples and they idly watch Jess drinking water from a bucket and eating oats from a bowl.

  Paula, Marcy and Charlie move about the outdoors shop in the company of women. It gives them time and space to talk and move at a pace they are comfortable with. They have killed. They have taken life so many times. They are bloodied and hardened and do not know each other as women but as members of the group. Now is a time for the bond to grow and be strengthened on a level not born from the primeval instinct for survival. They do not talk men or clothes or fashion but they talk as people with lives and experiences that are shared and understood. They cross to the huge Boots pharmacy and make pleasant comments at Mo who blushes as he deftly breaks in. They pluck cobwebs from faces as they move inside and then wait patiently with warm wry smiles as Mo advances to secure the area.

  Mo, for his part, needs this company of women. It is soothing in a way nothing else can be. He is sixteen. He is a boy transitioning to becoming a man. His life was hard before this. It was bitter and nasty. It was neglect and abandonment and a lack of nurture from either maternal or paternal care. Within this time now, he finds something that fills that gap within his soul. He adores Paula. He worships her in the way a son worships his mother so to gain a smile from her, a look, a hand on his arm, a kiss on his head or cheek is like when Dave praises him. They are entirely different but entirely the same in the product of the response within him.

  The endearment he feels for Marcy and Charlie are less than Paula but still there and so, to be within them now means he can be a man to guard them. He is trusted. He is Dave Trained. He stays close, watches the angles and looks serious with his back straight. He smiles and blushes too when they say our Mo Mo. He likes that. He likes the meaning of it, the sense of belonging.

  Outside the main doors, down a little into the precinct in the lee side of the Saxon so the rest stand. Each with feet planted apart. Each with a rifle over the crooks of their arms. Each with a giant grande coffee mug held in one hand that actually makes it hard to drink when holding the rifle like that but they look good so they won’t change. They are squaddies. Soldiers. They are the matching of souls, spirits and minds. Blowers, Cookey, Nick and Blinky. A fearsome foursome whose bond strengthens in the ever-increasing vulgarity of the comments they say to one another. A spunk trumpet full of cunt means I will stand with you. I will hold the line with you. I will not leave you when the enemy grow so large in number it makes your insides go like jelly and the voice inside screams to run away and never look back.

  They joke and talk. They turn to look too. Constantly watching, always watching, always scanning. The elders are inside. This is downtime. Blowers can relax his role for a few minutes and be with his mates. They swap stories and tell-tales of the things they saw and did in the fights they’ve had. They talk about Paco holding that big man above his head earlier. They talk about Mo’s speed which turns into an awe-filled muted discussion about Dave. They talk about girls, cars, movies, songs, places, people and things. They talk as people talk and they call each other fucktard, fuckface, fuckstick, wankstain, cockbreath and a hundred other things that prove offence will not be taken nor given for they are brethren of spirit and soul and mind.

  Meredith lies in the shade inside the back of the Saxon. She listens to the conversations of the pack and watches Maddox standing off alone and isolated. He is not pack. He is a visitor to the pack. His rights are different to the others. The way she sees him is different but she knows the distance is self-imposed. It is his choosing to maintain that separation. He does not want to be pack.

  He bloody does. He is desperate to be pack but that is a truth too uncomfortable to give voice so he twists it to suit his own perception and labels it as something else. If he was in charge he would do everything differently. He would get what they need and get out. He wouldn’t hang about chatting and drinking coffee. If he was in charge he wouldn’t travel in the same vehicle as everyone else either. He’d be at the front with his lieutenants and let the grunts come behind. He would have a chain of command. He would have proper discipline and order. He would do everything differently, properly too. Not like this. This is a mess. Everything about these people is a mess. He doesn’t understood how they’re so relaxed either. Howie killed people and Maddox rammed the wedge into their peace of mind with a large dollop of spite to hurt them the way he is hurt. It hasn’t worked though. Howie is drinking coffee and everyone else is pissing about being idiots.

  That isolation from the group means there is no break to the internal voice that grows louder as the day wears on. His self-loathing increases. His projected loathing increases. The insecurity and awareness that he is suddenly not special, not the leader, not the best-person-here increases too.

  Jess eats oats. Meredith stretches and groans softly then lifts her head to pant in the heat of the day. Nick appears, smiling and making noises while filling her bowl with more water. He rubs her head. She twitches her ears and tail to show she likes it.

  *

  ‘You just wait there, baby,’ Marcy tells the jewellery shop as she walks past carrying armfuls of clothing from the outdoor shop into Boots. Mo chuckles at the wink she gives him. ‘And you wait there too,’ she tells the long glass fronted perfume cabinet in the shop.

  ‘Eh?’ Paula asks, looking up from the mounds on the floor near the checkouts.

  ‘Talking to the perfume,’ Marcy says, dropping the clothes with a heavy huff as she wipes the sweat from her face.

  ‘Right,’ Paula says, stepping back to draw the back of her right arm across her forehead that comes away slick and wet.

  Trousers, tops, socks and undergarments arranged in piles and each with a packet of cleansing wet wipes, toothbrush and toothpaste. Marcy added the moisturiser and deodorant. Then Paula found the foot powder section and remembered about fungal problems in hot weather so added a bottle of that to each. Charlie found the razors, shaving cream and flannels. Marcy added shampoo and shower gel. Charlie found gel nails. Marcy found teeth whitening paste. Charlie found dental floss. Marcy found condoms. Charlie found lube and so it went on as the mounds grew in size with just about every product available.

  ‘Done?’ Marcy asks.

  Paula nods, ‘yep, done.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Marcy says. ‘Please say we can go first…actually, I’m not even waiting for an answer…Mo, honey?’

  ‘Yep?’ Mo asks, turning smartly from his position at the main door being a serious committed sentinel, and still with his pistol held double-gripped and down in front of his waist, heroic and brave with grit in his eye.

  ‘We’re stripping off so no peeking.’

  He blushes instantly, blinking a few times while nodding quickly and trying to stop the mental image of a naked Marcy and Charlie popping into his head. All of this happens at the same time as he realises he is still staring in instead of staring out. ‘Shnure,’ he blurts, wincing at the strange sound that just came from his mouth as he snaps out the fastest about-turn ever known in the history of humanity. He even strides forward a few steps to position outside the door as though to show he really really won’t peek while wondering what shnure means.

  The three women share smiles, all of them having seen his cheeks blooming wit
h colour.

  ‘Poor lad,’ Paula says quietly, ‘he could have had something for his wankbank…’

  ‘Paula!’ Marcy exclaims with mock wide eyes and shock at the comment. ‘That was a proper Cookey comment.’

  ‘It was,’ Charlie laughs, moving away a few steps to her pile of clothes and goodies.

  ‘Mo Mo doesn’t have a wankbank,’ Marcy says, keeping her voice muted and quiet. ‘He’s too sweet for that…oh that’s so nice,’ she adds with a groan at pulling her sodden top up over her head. ‘Either of you bothered if I strip off here?’

  ‘Not fussed,’ Paula says.

  ‘Hockey player,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Marcy says, reaching back to unclasp her bra fastening with another groan. ‘Oh my god that’s so nice…I’ve got underboob sweat.’

  They strip off with groans as appreciative as Marcy’s. Wet tops pulled and thrown into a pile. Bras taken off and packets of wipes opened to rub faces, arms, hands, necks, chests and stomachs. The used wipes are thrown into the pile of old tops as Mo stares ahead listening to the groans and moans coming from behind him. Shnure? He said shnure. What does that even mean?

  Boots and socks off. Feet cleaned. Trousers off. Legs cleaned. They cool down and wipe the sweat from their skin then use new towels to dry off.

  ‘If Cookey walked in now eh?’ Marcy jokes, standing in just her knickers holding a brand new fluffy towel. ‘Wankbank,’ she says with a tut at Paula. ‘Do you think they have?’

  ‘What?’ Paula asks.

  ‘You know…had a wank,’ Marcy says quietly, giggling as she says it.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Paula says, wincing at the thought. ‘I doubt it…where for a start? We’re always together.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Marcy says, thinking for a second, ‘good point.’

  New trousers. New socks. New tops. Deodorant sprayed in armpits. Faces cleansed with cream applied and slowly the feeling of being human is restored. A boost to moral. An ownership of an environment they have taken control of and now dominate with their mere presence. They drink coffee made in the café and chat until finally they are done and once more resplendent in the now assumed black uniform of their group.

  ‘Blinky, you come up and get changed,’ Paula says into the radio.

  ‘Yes, Miss Paula, Sir. On way now, Sir.’

  Paula blinks, shaking her head at the burst of speech firing through the radio. A few seconds later Blinky appears from sprinting down the length of the main shopping centre aisle and comes to a sudden stop with her hand hovering as though ready to salute.

  ‘Here, Miss Paula, Sir.’

  ‘Er, s’just Paula,’ Paula says to no avail as Blinky blinks.

  ‘Your pile,’ Paula says brightly, dropping to a crouch to sort through Blinky’s kit. ‘Your top and spares, your trousers and spares…underwear, socks…foot powder, wet wipes…ignore the condoms and lube Marcy and Charlie added…and the evening primrose oil capsules and the eye wash, tanning lotion and lipsticks…what the…’ Paula stops at the grunt coming from Blinky standing topless with her trousers round her ankles trying to pull her right boot off. ‘Er…so…we’ll give you a minute?’

  ‘Sir, Miss Paula, Sir…’

  ‘Blinky isn’t shy,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Get fucked posh bird,’ Blinky grins, tugging her boot off then hopping to start work on the left. ‘You all done?’

  ‘I am,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Did you see Marcy naked?’

  ‘Er,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Right here,’ Marcy says, lifting her hand.

  ‘Fit,’ Blinky grunts, pulling her left boot off, ‘ha, stupid cunt,’ she tells the boot. ‘Right, this mine then? What’s this? Is this lube? Why have I got lube?’

  ‘I just said…’ Paula goes to say.

  ‘And johnnies? Why you giving me rubber johnnies? I’m gay…these wet wipes?’

  ‘Yes they are,’ Paula says into the surreal environment as Blinky shreds the packet apart and starts cleaning herself.

  ‘Hot as fuck,’ Blinky tells Charlie as though it’s safe to speak normally as long as she doesn’t actually look at Paula or Marcy. ‘Sweating like a fucker…did you have coffee?’

  ‘We did yes,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Did Cookey put a cock on yours?’

  ‘No,’ Charlie laughs.

  ‘He put them on Mr Howie’s and the others….funny as fuck…’

  ‘What was that?’ Paula asks.

  ‘Nothing, Miss Paula,’ Blinky snaps.

  ‘I’m only asking,’ Paula says.

  ‘Don’t know anything, Miss Paula, Sir.’

  ‘Blinky, I’m not asking you to snitch or anything…I just wondered…’

  ‘Wasn’t there, Miss Paula. Didn’t see it.’

  ‘Right, yep okay then,’ Paula says.

  ‘Maddox is being a right bellend,’ Blinky says, resuming her private conversation with Charlie. ‘Won’t stand with us…won’t say anything. Total fuckstick, like…not a team player at all.’

  ‘It is awkward,’ Charlie remarks.

  ‘Do I have to put all this shit in my bag, Charlie?’

  ‘Not the lube, Blinky…or the condoms…or the, okay yes you can put it all in your bag if you want.’

  ‘I’m done,’ Blinky says, now cleaned, dried, dressed and ready in the space of two minutes. ‘Can I be excused, Miss Paula?’

  ‘Er yes?’

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am…fuck you Charles,’ Blinky marches off, digging Mo in the arm for good luck as she goes. ‘Tosser.’

  ‘Gotta love that girl,’ Paula muses into the void left from the whirling dervish force of nature that was Blinky. ‘Blowers, the others can come up.’

  ‘Yep, cheers, Paula.’

  Blowers releases his radio switch as he steps out wider to see Howie and the others still in the café chatting quietly. He gets Clarence’s attention and motions first to his group then to Clarence. You going next or us?

  Clarence nods at him. You go next.

  ‘I’m clean and dry fucktards,’ Blinky says, striding out the doors.

  ‘You okay here for five?’ Blowers asks her.

  ‘No I’m scared. Can someone stay with me please,’ Blinky says.

  ‘Come on,’ Blowers motions for the others to follow him through. Nick and Cookey fall in behind him as Cookey tries to shoulder barge Blinky who laughs and pushes back sending him into Nick who runs forward a step into Blowers. ‘Twats…Maddox, you come up too.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Maddox says curtly.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Maddox,’ Blowers says, unable to hide the irritation he feels. ‘It’s hot as…’

  ‘I’ll go after.’

  ‘You’ll go now. The Boss will go after. This isn’t...’

  Maddox shrugs, passive and unbothered. ‘Whatever,’ he falls in behind them. Following to the same destination but not part of them. He becomes aware of Howie, Clarence, Roy and Reginald turning in the café to watch him walk past the windows. The pressure grows. The feeling of isolation and loneliness magnify.

  ‘Mo Mo!’ Cookey says at seeing the sentry outside the entrance to the shop. ‘You alright mate?’

  ‘Yeah good,’ Mo says, still wondering what the hell shnure means.

  ‘Hey,’ Blowers goes in first, nodding at the three women then blanching at the piles of kit on the floor. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Charlie! Miss you…’

  ‘Miss you too, Cookey.’

  ‘Oh my god…is that lube? Fucking brilliant. And condoms?’ Cookey laughs, looking at the products on the piles.

  ‘What’s this?’ Nick asks, holding up a set of eye-lash crimpers that resembles a thumb torture device.

  ‘Blowers, that one is yours,’ Paula says, pointing to a pile. ‘Nick, yours…Cookey, yours is this one…Mo? You come and get changed, sweetie…’

  ‘Come on, sweetie,’ Nick calls out.

  ‘Honeybun?’ Blowers calls.

  ‘Pickle chops?’ Cookey joins in
.

  ‘Maddox,’ Paula says, her tone dropping a discernible notch as she says his name. ‘I guessed your size…there’s more over there if I got it wrong.’

  ‘Hey sweetie,’ Cookey says as Mo walks in. ‘You okay fluffy pumpkin?’

  ‘Pack it in,’ Paula says, her voice rising in pleasure at speaking to Cookey.

  ‘He’s an iccle bunny,’ Nick says, cooing as he leans in to pinch Mo’s cheek.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Mo laughs, leaning away.

  ‘You leave my Mo Mo alone,’ Paula says, waggling a finger at Nick.

  ‘Sorry, Paula,’ Nick says with a grin.

  ‘Lube,’ Cookey drops down to pick the tube up. ‘It says strawberry…is it flavoured? Oh my god…best day ever…you can actually eat this? Fuck yes! Blowers, try the lube…’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Go on, try it…eat some lube…’

  ‘You eat it.’

  ‘I will if you will…Nick, lick the lube…’

  ‘I’m not licking lube.’

  ‘Ah go on, Blowers, try it…’

  ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ Marcy says, laughing at Cookey urging the others to eat lube.

  ‘Marcy,’ Cookey blurts, ‘you try it…’

  ‘I’m not eating lube, Cookey.’

  ‘Ah someone do it…Charlie? You fancy some lube?’

  ‘Cookey,’ Blowers groans, wincing as he looks away.

  ‘I already have and it is very nice,’ Charlie says politely, holding a poker face as the three women walk down towards the back of the store.

  ‘Dick,’ Nick mutters with a chuckle at Cookey’s shocked expression.

  ‘Charlie? Did you really try the lube?’ Cookey asks.

  ‘Maybe,’ she calls back, now blocked from view behind the shelves.

  ‘Wow,’ Cookey mumbles, staring at his tube of lube. ‘Was it nice?’ he shouts.

  ‘Very nice,’ Charlie shouts back. ‘You can really taste the strawberries’