by RR Haywood
‘Go,’ he pauses to form a cup in his hands which Paula uses to get a boost to reach the six foot high fence. He drops to one knee, lifts the weapon to aim and twitches to point into the windows of the next house along. The magazine is emptied. The windows imploding from the high velocity bullets whipping to strike the walls and cupboards within the kitchen but not one of the strikes anything to cause a spark.
With a muttered curse he backs away from the fence to gain a run up and sprints to vault and gain purchase on the top edge and flip himself over and land next to Paula.
‘Didn’t ignite,’ he says quickly as they both start running straight out away from the houses towards a copse of trees on the other side of the field. The fence behind them shatters down with the force of the bodies flinging themselves through it. A splintering wrenching noise that only adds to the howls and screeches of the deranged infected so desperate to reach their quarry.
The field is hard going. Once ploughed and the divots and dips are treacherous underfoot. Dried out mud, cracked from the incessant blistering heat of the summer and the sweat cakes their faces.
Two people running from a thick line of undead that pay no heed to the trip hazards beneath them and the houses behind them continue to fill with gas as they run desperately away.
Twenty
‘Fuck,’ Cookey whispers.
‘Car park, remember?’ Nick says at seeing the swirling lines so perfectly moving together as the square fills with undead. The four lads stare from the window down into the open ground and already the path to the Saxon is cut off. The speed of the infected is incredible. They sprint flat out to blend seamlessly with each other in long snaking lines that seem to blur into one huge coiling entity.
They see it instantly. The dire threat now faced as their group is divided into four smaller teams. No way of getting to the others and no chance of reaching the Saxon.
‘We’ve gotta go,’ Nick says urgently.
‘Not the front,’ Blowers runs from the window and round the littered dining table to reach the kitchen window on the other side of the room where he yanks the net curtains down and stares out, ‘this way,’ he climbs the kitchen surface and with a foot in the sink he gets one window open to peer down.
‘Incoming,’ Cookey pushes away from the window to slam the door closed, ‘get the table over.’
Nick and Mo Mo rush to tip the table over onto its side, the dinner bowls and food smashing onto the floor. They work quickly, barricading the door with anything they can grab while the undead gain entry to the front door below and start the thunderous charge. Noise everywhere. Gunfire and Meredith barking. Snarling voices that screech with fury and the door bangs hard as they reach the other side.
‘Can we get down?’ Nick shouts across to Blowers leaning out the window.
‘Yeah, flat roof below…must be a store room at the back of the shop…’
‘What about the dog?’ Nick asks running over to join him.
‘Curtains,’ Mo Mo shouts and yanks the thick material hanging by the side of the window free from the fixings, ‘we can lower her.’
‘Quick,’ Blowers shouts, ‘Cookey hold that door.’
‘Yeah right,’ Cookey throws his weight into the barricade while holding his assault rifle clutched in his hands, ‘fucking hold the door he says.’
‘Done it?’ Blowers looks over at Nick and Mo Mo wrapping the middle of the curtain under Meredith’s stomach.
‘Have to do, come on,’ clicking his tongue Nick guides the growling dog to the window, ‘go down and I’ll lower her.’
‘Mate, you can’t hold her, she’s way too fucking heavy. Mo, grab one side with Nick.’
‘Yup,’ Mo jumps onto the kitchen side and waits while Blowers pushes through the frame and lowers himself down until hanging by his fingertips with his assault rifle slung across his back. He lets go and thuds down onto the hot surface of the flat roof.
‘Ain’t long enough,’ Mo Mo leans out to stare down, ‘curtains ain’t long enough.’
‘Fucking go!’ Cookey strains to push against the barricade being slowly forced back.
‘Have to do,’ Nick clambers up while keeping a firm grip on the two lengths of curtain. Passing one end to Mo Mo they heave Meredith up and start manhandling her to the open window.
Meredith lets the first lift happen. The things are coming and they must fight. The pack must be defended and there might be little ones near here that have to be protected. The things must die. The pack is strong. They should fight. Her paws start to scrabble to find purchase. Her claws skittering across the draining board and her panic starts to rise. Still barking with hackles up she fights to face the door Cookey is holding closed while Nick and Mo Mo curse and grunt to get through the window. Her back legs find the insides window sill and she powers away as though ready to bound free.
‘Higher,’ Nick grunts and gets one knee under her chest to help lift her up. She goes ungainly, undignified and clearly unhappy but she goes and swings out into the air with a very worried looking Blowers staring up at her legs thrashing in the air.
The two lads start lowering her, inching closer to lean out of the open window until they’re on their stomachs straining to hold her immense weight. Blowers underneath making soft noises the sooth the dog. He reaches up to grab her paws, ‘bit more,’ he says, ‘she’s too high.’
‘No….more….’ Mo Mo grimaces.
‘Now,’ Nick says and lets go of the curtain. With Mo Mo still holding his end the dog slides down the material to land with a soft thump on the roof where she bounds to the side with her tail high and teeth showing, ‘thank fuck,’ Nick sighs.
‘Er…we going or what?’ Cookey shouts.
‘Go,’ Nick slides aside to let Mo Mo drop down. ‘Cookey…on three,’ Nick shouts and moves round to edge backward out of the window, ‘one…he lowers himself down, ‘two…’ he shuffles his legs down while clinging onto the sill, ‘three!’ He lets go and lands heavily. All three of them move back and away with rifles up and aimed at the window as Cookey appears, twists round and drops lightly to hang for a split second by his hands before dropping down.
A loud crash of furniture being smashed aside and the room fills with noise. The first undead through catches sight of Cookey going through the window and surges across to launch himself head first after the disappearing lad and into a hail of bullets fired by three waiting assault rifles.
Blowers turns and runs to the edge, scanning the ground all around for a route to take. This block backs onto the village with the lanes that run to the blocks of cottages and buildings nestled into the countryside. In an instant he knows they’ve scored the best chance of retreat with more houses, walls and places of escape to use and fire from. The other three will have open countryside to run into. A sickening sensation of being separated, that the hunger they all faced made them make a bad decision but when Mr Howie said to split up they all figured it would be okay. The village was deserted.
‘Come on,’ he drops onto his backside, flips over and snakes his way down over the edge to land on the ground proper. Cookey next, copying his actions. Nick gets Meredith over and pauses while thinking how to do this. She has a better idea and breaks free to run to the far end and she bounds down onto the top of a large wheelie bin and then onto the ground.
‘Didn’t you see that bin then?’ Nick asks with a quick smirk.
‘Did you?’
‘Course,’ Nick runs to copy the dog as Mo Mo fires a sustained burst into the faces appearing at the open window. ‘Mo,’ he calls, ‘come on…Mo Mo…MO MO…GO NOW,’ Nick bellows at the sight of Mo Mo standing his ground to kill the undead as they appear coming through the window of the kitchen.
‘GET HIM,’ Blowers points at the youth.
Nick runs back and grabs Mo Mo’s arms. The youngest lad turns with a snarl and wild fury etched on his face, ‘go,’ Nick drags him away, ‘get down there.’
Mo Mo goes but his eyes stay fixed on the undead dra
gging their own kind free of the window so they can get through.
All four on the ground and Blowers takes point. They cross the enclosed courtyard to the high gate. Bolts are drawn back and the gate pushed open as Nick and Cookey fire back up into the window and the infected crossing the flat roof.
They have no choice but to run and flee. The ferocity of the assault is overwhelming in speed and dynamics. All four of them harrying the big German Shepherd to keep going knowing she’ll go back to take the lot of them on. Escaping but fleeing. Saving themselves but at what cost? Mr Howie can fight but he’s on his own with Marcy. Dave and Clarence will be okay but Paula and Roy?
‘Why’s we running?’ Mo Mo demands, ‘stand and fight.’
‘Just fucking go,’ Blowers orders
Glances are exchanged. Blowers to Cookey and Nick. All three of them worried about running from the fight and keeping a close on Mo Mo who seems hell bent on standing his ground.
A narrow tree bordered lane. Beautiful and picturesque with a sun dappled old tarmac surface. Wild flowers border the sides, protected from the worse of the harsh sun by the thick canopy meeting overhead.
Harsh breathing as they race with feet pounding the road and the dull chink and rattle of assault rifles rubbing against clothes. Meredith’s claws scraping lightly as she bounds easily ahead to scout the ground with a desire to turn and kill but a knowledge that the pack know what they are doing. There is a clear hierarchy within the pack and the hard faced dark haired man takes the lead when the others aren’t with them.
Frequent looks over shoulders tell them they are being chased. Thick lines that still stream from the window to fall down onto the flat roof and down again onto the ground. Nothing stops them. Nothing makes them slow down. They are relentless in nature and redesigned by a virus to move faster, to feel no pain and drive on.
‘Count to five….’ Blowers snatches breath, ‘turn and fire…all of us…be ready…’ He catches a quick look behind and then ahead to the curve in the lane. ‘One…two…three…’ he slows down and checks his weapon is ready to go, ‘four….FIVE!’
As one they stop and as one they turn and drop to a steadying knee and four assault rifles are fired on single shots with repeated tugs on the triggers as they make each shot count. One after the other is shot down to spin away and trip those behind. Nick reaches a hand out to grab Meredith’s neck, a brief pause between shots and still holding the dog he continues to empty his magazine.
A devastating effect that shreds many. Crawlers are formed but many are killed outright with good shots aimed despite heaving chests.
‘Up…GO…’ On their feet with a running magazine change. Old ones out to be tucked away. New ones dragged from pockets that are rammed up and bolts slid back. They build up to a sprint, stretching their strides to make the most of the delay caused to those pursuing them. The curvature to the left is followed and still they gain speed with grimacing smiles and tears being whipped from eyes. A chance to gain distance and get out of sight. To choose a fighting ground or hide somewhere to double back to the others.
The lane is long with the high trees still giving thankful shade. Cookey slows, pukes the food so recently taken in and steps up to keep running with a face flushed from the heat.
‘Ahead,’ Blowers pants the word at the sight of the wall glimpsed in the distance and the promise of a building or a house.
Nick pukes next. The meal they took in churning too much with the heat and the frantic motion of running. It burns his throat and the thick tears sting his eyes. A hand on his arm keeps him steady and he glimpses Mo Mo guiding him with quick furtive looks back down the lane.
‘Keep going,’ Mo Mo breathes easy, his lighter body and years spent running through the estate standing him in good stead, ‘you’s alright…keep going.’
‘Dig in, Nick,’ Blowers calls out and spits at the vomit threatening to push up from his own stomach.
The wall gets closer but it takes forever to reach. Roofs behind it. Houses and street lights. Cars parked up on driveways and greater signs of the outbreak and storm start showing.
A huge tree ripped from the roots lays thick across the road. The foliage of the branches only just starting the turn as they die slowly and morph from glorious green to brittle brown.
‘Fire…’ Blowers spits again to clear his mouth, ‘fire point…tree…’
‘Yep,’ Cookey nods once and all four fix their eyes on the thick trunk and the promise of being able to stop and rest.
Under, over and round they go to the other side and they drop down onto knees with shaking hands bringing their rifles to bear.
‘Water?’ Nick asks between ragged breathing. Heads shake as they pant and heave. Blowers swallows the sick down with a look of furious determination. Mo Mo glaring with longing at the curve in the lane and his rifle up and raised ready to be fired.
‘Pick your shots,’ Blowers says. The distance is quite long from here to the curvature in the lane and their ammunition is valuable. Which is ironic considering just how much they’ve got stacked in the Saxon. The GPMG would be perfect here, Blowers shakes his head and snaps his thoughts to the now, ‘make ready…single shots…who’s got Meredith?’
‘With me,’ Nick replies with one hand on the back of the dog’s neck. She pants hard with a long tongue lolling from the side of her mouth but her eyes are as fixed as the others.
‘Here,’ Cookey whispers as the first one bursts into sight as she roars down the lane towards them. A wild look of pure hatred on her face. Hair patchy on her mottled head. Red eyes blazing but her motion is fluid with knees high and arms pumping to gain momentum and keep balance. ‘Nice tits,’ Cookey remarks at the sight of the boobs under her filthy blood soaked t shirt bouncing in a crazy circular motion.
‘You’re fucking sick,’ Nick says, ‘that…is minging.’
‘You would,’ Cookey says.
‘Not with yours,’ Nick says.
‘See those, Blowers,’ Cookey says quietly, ‘they’re called boobs…women have them and it’s what makes them sexy.’
‘Funny fucker, shut up and focus.’
Four lads watch two boobs that develop a motion and fluidity of their own. Seemingly possessed and they try to break free from the undead woman to run free and live a new life. The right goes up and to the left but the left goes down and to the right. Independent motion and mesmerising until a single shot takes her head off with a sudden boom.
‘Who did that?’ Cookey blinks as the woman flies back to lie prone on the ground.
‘Yep,’ Mo Mo claims the shot, ‘she was minging.’
‘Shot mate,’ Blowers calls down, ‘fair distance that was.’
‘Call of Duty, sniping…’
‘Preferred Battlefield,’ Nick says.
‘Yeah?’ Mo Mo looks across in surprise, ‘I played it.’
‘Give you a game sometime,’ Nick says.
‘You two finished speed dating we got incoming,’ Cookey fires at the infected running into view, ‘I played Call of Duty,’ he adds between shots, ‘Blowers didn’t, ‘he played with men.’
‘Dick,’ Blowers fires, adjusts his aim and fires again and bends double as the vomit spews without warning from his mouth.
‘Mate, you alright?’ Cookey shouts in alarm, ‘Blowers?’
‘I’m fine, just that fucking food you made.’
‘Not my food you twat it’s the bloody running.’
‘Poisoned us,’ Blowers wipes his mouth and blinks to clear his vision before firing once again.
‘That bowl you used,’ Cookey shouts, ‘I rimmed it.’
‘I rimmed yours,’ Mo Mo calls down.
‘Argh Nick, the bloody dog is eating my puke,’ Blowers groans, ‘I thought you had hold of her.’
‘I did, she was lying down…don’t let her eat your puke.’
‘Meredith no! Stop it…Meredith I said no…’ Blowers shoos her away, ‘you dirty girl,’ he admonishes gently with a tut.
&nbs
p; ‘Clear,’ Cookey shoots the last one down and scrabbles back to look over at Blowers staring disgustingly down at his half eaten mound of vomit, ‘that’s fucking gross.’
‘Telling me,’ Blowers says, ‘ready? Move out.’
They stand slowly, still breathing hard and the sweat gleaming on their faces. Magazines are changed and dry lips licked in a vain effort to draw moisture.
Meredith sniffs the vomit and goes to start eating it again until her ears pick up the sound of drumming feet. Her head whips up and the low growl alerts the others that the fight isn’t over. They turn to watch, readying weapons and expecting a few stragglers when the first thick rank appears at the head of a dense crowd moving as one.
‘Fuck,’ Cookey takes a step forward and stares hard, ‘look at that…’
‘Move out…we’re going,’ Blowers says at the sight. Bigger built undead at the front. Obese. Fat. Large. Big boned. Dense bodies that can absorb the firepower of the assault rifles and so give protection to those behind.
The four start running, building once again to a sprint as they get past the wall and rows of cottages so like the ones back in the square. Stone built with tiled roofs. Blocks of several in a row. A small access lane and more to the left and right. The village laid out in a haphazard wonderfully eccentric way of old England in its glory.
A village pub under a thatched roof. A post office further down. Benches at the sides of the lanes and more rows of cottages. An idyllic place to live and grow old, where everyone knew everyone else and the gossip of the day was to be shared over a pint of ale in the pub of an evening.
Mo Mo stares, taking it in. In reality this town is but a couple of hours from his old estate but a different world. A gentle place seen in old black and white films. No crime rate. No immigration issues. No underperforming schools refusing admissions to the most desperate of children in an effort to please the inspectors. No job centre where you signed on. No cars burnt out and left for weeks by a council too hard up to get it moved.
The effect isn’t lost on the other three. All of them from town centres that were filled with betting shops, second hand stores, charity shops, payday loan shops and take away food places. Towns filled with traffic lights and sign posts that ordered you what to do and where not to park.
