by RR Haywood
‘Dave,’ Clarence warns as Howie’s bodyguard lifts his rifle at the sight of Howie handing Marcy the pistol while he moves the holster. ‘Dave!’ Clarence snaps when he doesn't lower the assault rifle.
‘Oh dear,’ Reginald says fretfully twitching his gaze between Dave and the two in the middle of the square, ‘oh good lord she didn’t shoot him,’ he says with relief as they start heading off.
Clarence sizes the door up while the two small men track their beloveds as they argue and bicker towards the house.
‘Will they be okay?’ Reginald asks.
‘Yes,’ Dave replies.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘How can you be so sure? I am not sure. Really I don’t know how you can be so sure.’
Dave stares at Reginald devoid of expression. Reginald stares back full of expressions, his face morphing from a grimace into a smile into worry then finally deep concern at being stared at so blankly.
Behind the door explodes inwards from the huge foot aimed to perfection at the main lock, ‘ha!’ Clarence nods and turns so they can stare in awe at his perfect kick. ‘You two okay?’ He asks at seeing them staring at each other strangely.
‘Yes,’ Dave says without looking away from Reginald.
‘I…’ Reginald goes to say. ‘Do you have to stare at me in that way? It is most disconcerting.’
Dave stares.
‘Dave, leave him alone. Come on,’ Clarence says shaking his head he walks through the broken doorway and into the house. ‘Anyone home?’ He calls out and waits with the rifle held ready. He stiffens as Dave walks in behind him and heads straight up the stairs without a word spoken, ‘Dave, you check upstairs.’
‘I am.’
‘I was being sarcastic.’
Dave doesn't reply but clears the upper floor with his usual lightning speed before heading down the stairs and waiting behind Clarence.
‘Clear?’
‘Yes,’ Dave says.
The big man takes a deep breath, ‘you could have said.’
‘I did.’
‘Only when I asked.’
‘By the fact I came back down should be signal the upper floor is clear and we can proceed.’
Clarence goes to retort then snaps it off at the perfectly logical answer laid out.
‘Oh dear,’ Reginald mutters from behind them both. He turns to see Howie pushing Marcy from the door to their house then back to see Clarence glowering at Dave and Dave staring blankly up at the red face of Clarence, ‘oh dear, conflict everywhere. May I go with another team?’ He asks, ‘Paula seems nice. Perhaps I should be with Paula and Roy?’
‘Mr Howie said you’re with us,’ Dave says without breaking eye contact from Clarence.
Reginald frets and adjusts his tie knot. The previous world was not kind to Reginald. The base acts of modern society appalled him. He was polite but somewhat patronising as those with greater intellect often are. He fretted day to day in the same way he still frets day to day. When the world fell and his intellect failed to protect him he came back as a minion to be bid by the hive mind controlled by Marcy. When that ended, so too did the power Marcy yielded over him but he stayed with her simply because being away from her was not an option.
He felt, deep down inside, that Marcy acted with honest intent when she went to the fort. There was no trickery or deceit and what happened later, with the pheromones, was something he had no knowledge off. The days spent in the houses while Marcy recovered were fretful but she recovered and soon they were both showing signs that the infection had left them. They ate food. Slept. Drank water. Defecated. They did as humans do. He wanted to leave and go somewhere quiet where they could hide out, and when she refused so the fretting began again. Now there was just conflict. Last night was terrifying. Fighting. Shooting. Shouting. Explosions. Dead bodies. Young people injured and screaming. Fires.
When they left with Howie and his team at dawn he felt glad to be away from the fort but conflicted at being with such an obviously violent group of people who seemed to attract trouble at every corner of every street.
He vowed to stay hidden, stay small and stay quiet. Fret quietly and go along with it until he could talk some sense into Marcy but then she started arguing with Howie and he felt lost within the team. They were all strong characters with strong voices. Tough people with guns and knives and axes who had killed time and again. They responded so perfectly to Howie’s commands and worked fluidly as a team, and with Marcy bickering with Howie so he felt even more isolated.
Looking back into the house he stares worriedly at Clarence and Dave glaring at each other. No, he muses to himself, Dave doesn't glare. Dave just stares and his face is unreadable. Reginald liked Clarence. There was something warm and human about the big man, like a protective bear that worried about his brood.
‘Er,’ he clears his throat, ‘perhaps you gentleman would like some food now?’ he enquires politely, ‘in the kitchen, which is er…down there I believe,’ he goes to point then remembers that pointing is rude so sort of waves in that general direction instead.
Dave walks into the kitchen and casually looks round, ‘clear,’ he says clearly, ‘crawler in the garden.’
‘A what what?’ Reginald stops in the doorway to the kitchen and tries to peer round Clarence’s huge girth.
‘Crawler,’ Dave says.
‘You mean a living challenged? In the garden?’ Reginald edges forward and looks through the glass of the back door to the old lady slowly clawing herself across the sun parched lawn, ‘oh gosh. What do we do?’
‘Dave?’ Clarence asks looking through the cupboards, ‘you mind?’
Dave unlocks the back door and steps out as Reginald balks and backs away to watch the other small man walk casually over, drop down and swipe the blade of his knife deftly across the old ladies throat. She gargles noisily, pumping blood onto the grass before slumping down as Dave wipes his blade on her knitted cardigan.
‘Loads here,’ Clarence says, ‘you hungry, Reggie?’
‘Reginald,’ Reginald says automatically.
‘Baked beans, macaroni…meatballs…some pasta, rice, rice cakes…bloody hell, she’s only got a four pack of tuna in here.’
‘Any cheese?’ Reginald asks, ‘we could make a tuna and pasta bake…are there tinned tomatoes?’
‘We’ll be eating it all cold im afraid,’ Clarence says almost apologetically. He knew he shouldn’t like Reginald as Reginald was on the enemy’s side. But he did like Reginald. He liked the way the man was always so neat and tidy and the way he fussed and fretted over Marcy. ‘Unless the gas is still on,’ he adds.
‘Gas? Oh I see, the gas stove…let’s see shall we…yes…yes it appears the gas is most certainly on. May I see what we have? Oh okay, yes…the macaroni will certainly make a cheese dish which could be blended with the tuna and…’
‘Clarence?’
‘Mo Mo?’ Clarence strides away into the hallway leaving Reginald to mutter and sort through the food tins.
‘We found loads, Paula and Roy has too.’
‘Good, check with the boss and see what he wants to do. I suggest we eat first then meet back in the middle after…’
‘Got it.’
‘Mo Mo!’
‘Yeah?’ Mo Mo turns back from starting to run off, ‘can you politely suggest to Mr Howie that they sort their shit out.’
‘I’m not saying that,’ Mo Mo says.
‘Fair enough,’ Clarence shrugs. He turns back to the kitchen and stops at the sight of Reginald pulling saucepans and plates from cupboards. ‘Everyone has got loads of food,’ he says, ‘I think we’ll eat in here then meet after.’
‘Uh huh,’ Reginald says, ‘right,’ he turns grinning first at Dave then Clarence, ‘you two sit down and I shall rustle us up something in no time.’
‘You cooking then?’ Clarence asks with a bemused grin, ‘we could just open the tins and eat it cold.’
‘And we could also def
ecate on the floor but we are not animals,’ Reginald promptly replies, ‘we are civilised and shall eat like civilised people.’
‘Okay,’ Clarence chuckles and crosses to the table where he eases his considerable weight into a groaning wooden chair and looks across at Dave. ‘Think they’ll be okay?’
‘Yes,’ Dave says.
‘You’re hard work you are, Dave.’
‘Yes.’
‘Glad we got that sorted, need a hand, Reggie?’
‘Gosh no, I am more than capable here. I suggest with start with a light aperitif of grilled pilchards, tinned unfortunately but that shall be followed by a tuna and pasta medley based in a rich tomato sauce and finished off with a light fruit salad.’
‘Right,’ Clarence blinks and stares.
‘I will boil some water for tea while we wait, would you care to wash your hands now or…?’
Dave and Clarence look at each other and both recognise an order subtly disguised as a request.
‘Now?’ Clarence asks Dave.
‘Yes, now,’ Dave says.
‘Mr Clarence?’
‘In here and it’s just Clarence, I’m not mister…’
‘Soz,’ Mo Mo pants, ‘head’s fucked innit…Mr Howie said we can eat in our houses and meet back in an hour,’ he goes to run off, stops and turns back, ‘anything else?’
‘No,’ Clarence says.
‘Not in there!’ Reginald exclaims in horror at Dave starting to wash his hands in the kitchen sink, ‘upstairs please, gentlemen. That is not hygienic at all. Really! That is exactly the sort of thing Marcy would do.’
They head upstairs and Clarence stares silently at the dead body in the bath while Dave washes his hands before they swap over and Dave stares at the body while Clarence scrubs up.
‘Suicide?’ Clarence leans over to look at the congealed and dried pool of blood at the bottom of the bath.
‘Yes,’ Dave says.
‘Can’t blame him I suppose,’ Clarence shakes the water from his hands.
‘No,’ Dave says.
Back in the kitchen they resume their places at the table while Reginald rushes hither and thither opening tins and unscrewing tubes of puree. He slides the grill open and turns the pilchards as the room fills with the heavenly scent of cooked fish.
‘So,’ Clarence says to fill the silence, ‘you like cooking then, Reggie.’
‘One might say I enjoy the culinary arts,’ Reginald says while stirring a pan, ‘it is the mark of a civilisation to take the basic ingredients to enhance the flavours and compliments of each food. Of course, so much more attention is paid these days to the correct nutritional values and I do pride myself on finding the right balance between proteins, carbohydrates and fats but alas, with such a limited menu I am restricted with what I can do.’
‘Oh,’ Clarence says and stretches his legs out, ‘so you think you and Marcy are not infected now?’
‘Truly I do not know,’ Reginald says with a glance at Clarence, ‘really I wish I was able to provide a more succinct answer. Oh I say, is it wise for me to be cooking for you?’
‘Just don’t spit in it,’ Clarence smiles.
‘I certainly would not! I have scrubbed my hands thoroughly and…’
‘I was joking.’
‘Oh, of course. Forgive me, my humour does not match the soldier humour you all display.’
‘You worried then?’
‘Worried?’
‘About being with us?’
‘I am not worried,’ Reginald says with a firm shake of his head, ‘I am terrified and completely out of my depth. I cannot fight or wield a weapon and I feel faint at the sight of blood. Marcy and Mr Howie are bickering and truly that worries me greatly.’
‘They’ll sort it out,’ Clarence replies, ‘one way or another,’ he adds in a low mutter that earns a glance from Dave.
The pilchards are served. On plates and with knives and forks. Fresh water in glasses and the three men eat seated at the table with Reginald glaring at Dave’s elbows on the table until Dave takes his elbows off the table.
They are gone within a few seconds. Wolfed down with lips being licked and eyes turning towards the amazing smells coming from the pots on the gas hobs. The middle course is served. Pasta mixed with macaroni, tinned tuna and blended with tinned tomatoes, baked beans, meatballs and puree.
The taste is incredible. While Marcy and Howie feed each other within their charged room so the three eat from clean bowls using clean spoons and pardoning themselves from the belches given from the empty stomachs taking food. Fruit salad follows. Several tins opened and spread with two larger portions for Clarence and Dave and a more modest portion for Reginald. Water comes to the boil while they eat and the three coffee mugs rest on the side waiting to be filled.
‘Reginald,’ Clarence leans back and sighs as the last of the fruit is swallowed down, ‘that was perfect, mate.’
‘Oh I hardly think so,’ Reginald says with a fretful shake of his head, ‘meatballs with tuna? Oh no, but the proteins were there to ensure your muscles are replenished and I can only apologise for the mixed flavourings but…’
‘It was lovely!’ Clarence laughs, ‘stop fretting, want coffee?’
‘Oh gosh sit back down and let me do it.’
‘You cooked,’ Clarence says happily now his blood sugar is rising back to more safer levels and the world is suddenly looking not quite so shit, ‘I’ll brew up. Dave, you clearing?’
‘Yes,’ Dave clears the table while Reginald frets back and forth at the sight of the two toughest men he has ever seen doing domestic chores.
‘I reckon,’ Clarence says contentedly after stirring the last mug, ‘that we are probably the most civilised ones here. Mr Howie and Marcy will be glaring at each other across their table. Roy is probably getting Paula to check all his new lumps and the lads are probably sitting amongst a pile of empty cans while talking about boobs and each other’s mothers.’
He freezes with the mug held to his lips. Dave snapping his head up. Reginald’s eyes widening like saucers as a hundred voices and more pierce the air with the howling screams of the undead.
‘Shit,’ the mug falls as Dave rises and Reginald panics.
Twelve
Forty five minutes for a regular.
Thirty five minutes for someone who trains hard.
Five miles to be covered but with the heart rate monitored perfectly and the exact doses of chemicals, endorphins and energy releases controlled from the nervous system, the horde can do it in thirty.
Old. Young. Infirm. Diseased. Fat. Obese. Anorexic. The sick, lame, weary and normal run at the same pace with a motion that would put an Olympic distance runner to shame. Perfectly fluid and every movement is controlled.
They do not lurch or stagger and they do not waste precious fluid by drooling.
The infection has learnt. It has evolved.
It has retained resources to be deployed.
It will not give in.
It will not stop.
One race.
Thirteen
‘Now Roy?’
He nods with so much worry etched into every line in his face that the irritation disappears instantly, ‘okay,’ she says softly, ‘where?’
‘My neck,’ he tilts his chin up to stretch his neck out.
‘Your neck,’ Paula asks staring at his neck, ‘er, where am I looking?’
‘On the right side,’ he says brushing his fingertips over the right side of his neck, ‘it feels all…’ he holds his hand away from his neck as though it’s being pushed by something big, ‘all like…’ his hand opens and closes quickly, ‘like pulsing and growing…’
‘Here?’ She asks gently touching his neck.
‘Oh god,’ he whimpers with his eyes screwed shut, ‘can you see it? How big is it? Oh god oh god…’
‘Roy, I was checking I had the right place,’ she says soothingly, ‘hang on,’ she puts the assault rifle down on the floor of the hallway to the co
ttage so identical in layout and design to the others. With both hands free she grips him as though to strangle but gently, softly, massaging with the touch of a lover, ‘I can’t feel anything.’
‘It feels swollen and…stiff on one side…and…here,’ he motions again to the right side.
With his eyes closed she stares at him with genuine care. The man is so fit with not an ounce of fat on his lean frame and he’s worked so well with the others and seemed to make a real effort not to say things that would offend them. She hardly knows him but they were together when they met the others so a team within a team they remain. A loyalty and deep respect that grows with every passing hour.
‘There’s nothing there, honey,’ she says using a term of endearment now they’re alone and away from the others.
‘Sure?’
‘Really, I can’t feel anything different…’ she feels again, slightly harder knowing there is nothing there but also knowing the torment within his mind, ‘honestly, Roy. I promise I would never lie.’
‘Okay,’ he exhales slowly and opens his eyes, ‘thank you.’
‘Anytime.’
‘I get it when I’m stressed,’ he says with her hands still holding his neck.
‘In your neck?’
‘Always have,’ he replies and covers her hands gently with his, ‘the doctors got so fed up with me,’ he says while stroking his thumbs over the backs of her hands.
‘I won’t,’ she says.
‘One day you will.’
‘No.’
‘It’ll get tiresome and…’
‘Not to me.’
‘I don’t want to stay with them,’ he says while staring into her eyes.
‘I know, I told Howie we were thinking of leaving…’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not much, everything that’s happened…I couldn’t push it again…not after…’
‘Lani, of course,’ Roy says, ‘I do like them but…and if you want to stay I’ll stay with you.’
