The Undead Day Seventeen

by RR Haywood

  They take the twists and turns of the lanes and avenues. Lefts and rights that loop through tree lined roads to yet more rows of cottages. Snaking, confusing and they push on following the gentle inclines up and the relieving declines down. No brick built alleys here. No barbed wire or high walls with camera’s fixed behind dark globes on long posts. Footpaths instead that have been maintained and looked after. Pavements in good repair. Road surfaces smooth and not covered in pot holes or utility company patchwork bumps.

  They become hotter. Thirsty. Breathing hard and all the time the snarls of the undead push them further away from their team and deeper into the village.

  The lane splits in two. The main road to the left and a smaller, narrower lane to the right. Instinct says to go left and stick with the wider road but Nick thinks fast under pressure and pulls an empty magazine from his pocket which he throws down the main road and motions they should take the smaller one.

  No words are needed. The decision is made and they run on hoping the chasing horde will follow the bigger road.

  Denser thickets on both sides of the lane. Forests that stretch back to dark depths overgrown with thickly sprouting saplings, ferns and bushes. They get a good distance down then vault the fence and move into the forest, moving fast, pushing on, making distance.

  Only after several long minutes of being whipped in the face by low branches and getting feet snagged on roots does Blowers allow them to slow and ease the frantic pace.

  They don’t speak but listen intently, staring round into the surrounding undergrowth and constantly watching Meredith for signs she can hear or smell them. She snuffles the ground ahead and pants hard but shows no discernible signs.

  ‘Down,’ Blowers waves his hand up and down, signalling them to go low and rest. Finding thick trees to lean against they slump down and crane necks to stare back to the road.

  Hot and humid and the sweat is wiped away so much it makes the skin on their foreheads sore. Cookey swallows noisily, his throat parched. Eyes flitting left and right, breathing through mouths.

  Nick looks over at Blowers. They share a glance. Nick nods, we’re safe. Blowers nods back, agreed.

  ‘Come on,’ he speaks low and hoarse, urging them onto their feet so they can thread carefully through the forest and away from the immediate point of danger.

  ‘Plan?’ Cookey asks once the four have grouped together to walk as a unit.

  ‘Keep going and find somewhere to wait,’ Blowers says, ‘get water and hope to fuck they kept going down that other road…’

  ‘We going back for the others?’ Mo Mo asks.

  ‘Definitely but we’ve killed a few and taken a few more away,’ Blowers explains, ‘let them fuck off and we can go back.’

  The others nod but show the worry clear on their faces, ‘listen up,’ Blowers takes a breath and exhales slowly, ‘Mr Howie can fight like a bastard…we’ve all seen him do it right? So he’ll be okay. Nothing on this fucking planet can touch Dave or Clarence and Paula can outthink them easy…they’ll get together and slaughter the lot before we even get back then we’ll get a massive bollocking for taking so long and it’ll all be alright.’

  Cookey snorts dry humour. Nick smiles a tight smile and Mo Mo hangs on every word.

  ‘Fuck I’m thirsty,’ Blowers says after a few minutes, ‘puking has dried my throat out.’

  ‘At least we’re in the shade,’ Nick says after another few minutes of silent walking, ‘cooler in here.’

  ‘Mo, you okay?’ Cookey’s turn to break the heavy silence.

  ‘Good,’ Mo Mo says not used to people asking him if he is okay all the time. Only Jagger used to ask him that and that wasn’t very often. They didn’t need to ask each other.

  Twigs snap underfoot. Branches snag and muttered curses sound out and with as much stealth as a herd of foraging pigs they stomp, swear and trip through the forest while all the time believing they are being as stealthy as a stoat.

  Meredith finds the new smells gloriously different after a lifetime within the habitats of humans. The smells here are strong and natural. They cling to the ground like colours and speak of beasts both male and female that use winding paths. Rotten vegetation and old droppings give her an urge to drop and roll to coat herself in the scent. Something else was here recently too. Humans.

  Stomp. Swear. Trip. Snag. Rattle.

  They stop and look down at the loud foreign noise.

  ‘What was that?’ Nick whispers. A loud rattling noise coming from both sides. Metallic and distinct.

  ‘Tin cans,’ Mo Mo says, ‘like…filled with stones…there, over there, see?’

  ‘Fucking trip wire,’ Cookey looks down at the fishing line pressing against his right ankle. He pushes it out and the line pulls hard as the tins cans rattle again.

  ‘Don’t keep doing it then you dick,’ Nick says, ‘stay still,’ he edges over and follows the fishing line through a pair of saplings to a tin can held off the ground, ‘old tin of beans filled with stones,’ he calls out.

  ‘Same other side,’ Blowers says, ‘who the fuck has done that?’

  ‘Can I move now?’ Cookey asks.

  ‘Step over the wire,’ Blowers says, ‘Nick, you’ve got good eyes, go on point.’

  ‘On it.’

  ‘Why has he got good eyes?’ Cookey asks, ‘what’s wrong with my eyes?’

  ‘You snagged the wire.’

  ‘We weren’t looking for a wire then.’

  ‘Still snagged it cockface.’

  ‘Nick!’ Blowers snaps at the loud rattling sounding out from the sides, ‘don’t just keep going you twat…’

  ‘Not me,’ Nick plants his feet to examine the ground in front, ‘Meredith,’ he groans at the dog trying to pull her foot free from a tangle of fishing wire. Tin cans rattle and bang noisily as the dog gets increasingly frustrated, yanking her back legs up and down while twisting round to try and see what’s catching her.

  ‘Good girl,’ Mo Mo drops down at her sides, his assault rifle laid on the ground and he starts pulling the wire from her leg, ‘you’s a good girl.’

  She whines softly and gives his cheek a big lick that makes him grin widely. The other three stare round with confused looks, shrugging at each other.

  She bounds free from the wires and pushes on with nose down and tail up following a new scent trail. People. People who came here a few days ago. More than one. They came from one direction and went back the same way. The scents are similar in a way that her amazing sense of smell can discern age, weight and gender of the species.

  ‘Fuck!’ Cookey hits another trip wire and curses loud into the air.

  ‘Fucking blind,’ Blowers tuts disdainfully then sets one off himself, ‘cock it.’

  ‘Twat!’ Nick is next, his own foot pushing the thin wire.

  ‘How many!?’ Cookey snags another.

  Meredith follows the scents to the points of the cans. She sniffs the tin and detects the faint aroma of the previous contents. Baked beans in tomato sauce. Washing up liquid. The pebbles now in them have been brought from somewhere else and they still hold the smells of the sweat from the hands of those that carried them.

  ‘FUCK!’ Nick hits another one.

  Meredith runs side to side in delight at having a puzzle to follow. The smells are glorious. Rabbits, badgers, fox shit that makes her want to roll over. Birds and insects. A fat worm wiggling under a broad leaf. Rats, voles, mice. There, the people went this way. She noses the ground and jumps lightly over the wire.

  ‘Oh my god,’ Blowers trips over a tight wire, ‘who fucking did this?’

  One of them ate food here. Chocolate. She sniffs round and finds the crumbs spilled on the earth. They sat down for a while. The scent is strong. They gathered together. A pack. A new pack but a different pack. She looks back and pants at Blowers picking himself up from the ground and Mo Mo laughing while Nick shouts at being caught again and Cookey kicking out at something in front of him. She loves these ones from her pack. Th
ey are younger and have a playful energy.

  This way she rotates on the spot with her tail wagging, a high pitched yap and she thrusts her nose down to lead the path through the trees.

  ‘I’m gonna punch them,’ Blowers seethes, ‘when I find them I’ll fucking punch them…in the face…really hard…’

  ‘Just lift your feet,’ Mo Mo laughs at the sight of the three blundering through the wires. They’re so competent, so experienced and always know what to do and the sight only serves to humanise them more.

  ‘Yeah,’ Cookey points at Blowers, ‘just lift your feet.’

  ‘Right in the mouth,’ Blowers nods firmly, ‘gonna smash ‘em in the fucking mouth for putting stupid fucking wires everywhere and…I mean…utter cunts…complete utter cunts.’

  They push on. Snagging wires that set the rattling tins off that make them swear. Blundering stomping feet lifting high like Mo Mo. Moon men defying gravity and the sight sets Mo off even more until tears are streaming down his face.

  ‘Right in the chops,’ Blowers mutters, ‘in the chops…’

  Close now. The scent trail is stronger and the smell of the new pack hangs in the faint breeze coming through the trees.

  ‘Aye up,’ Cookey holds a hand up, ‘ahead.’

  ‘Bout fucking time,’ Blowers mutters again, ‘really will punch them in the face.’

  ‘Yeah you said,’ Nick says peering through the trees.

  ‘I will,’ Blowers says emphatically, ‘really will.’

  The tree line ends. Open sky beyond and they edge forward slowly until the huge roof of the building comes into view. Different to the houses they saw. Bigger. Longer and wider with higher bits and lower sections.

  ‘What is that?’ Cookey asks quietly.

  ‘Like a…big house?’ Nick says. The view opens gradually and not knowing what they’re going into makes them slow down and use the cover of trees to check each step.

  A vast open ground beyond the trees. A huge house set in gardens with playing fields on all sides fitted with football goal posts, rugby goal posts. Tennis courts, netball courts and hard hockey surfaces.

  They drop down in the ferns at the edge of the tree line and stare hard. Sweeping eyes over the deserted grounds to the house.

  ‘No cars,’ Nick whispers.

  ‘Coach,’ Mo Mo nods at the single vehicle parked in the car park to the front of the house, ‘sign board…see it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Blowers strains his eyes at the big square sign board erected in front of the house. ‘See anyone?’ He asks in a muted voice.

  ‘Nope,’ Cookey wipes his sore forehead again, ‘people in that house though.’

  ‘Really?’ Blowers asks, ‘do you think?’

  ‘Sarcastic prick,’ Cookey tuts, ‘who do you think put the wires up?’

  ‘Really? Do you think?’ Blowers asks again in a forced light tone, ‘what else have you deduced Poirot?’

  ‘Er, that your mum is fat.’

  ‘Fact, right…we’ll go down…spread out in a line.’

  They edge sideways to create distance between each and slowly emerge from the undergrowth. Rifles held ready, eyes scanning. Four sweat stained young men with hard faces and lean bodies that step with sweeping strides. Four young men watched by many pairs of eyes from within the house.

  Twenty-One

  Shots off to the side. A sustained burst of firing. Clarence looks quickly to Dave who nods and the new direction is taken without words being needed. A thick line of undead behind them and they veer off to aim for the sounds of their team fighting.

  ‘Paula and Roy,’ Clarence works out the direction and who it would be, ‘Dave…call out…’

  ‘HERE,’ the voice booms into the air so loud it forces an instant yelp from the still terrified Reginald.

  Hard ground underfoot. A field that was once ploughed and it saps energy to keep the pace high. Reginald sweats profusely with his heart rate thundering up. Unused to such exercise and he can hardly generate coherent thought but stays doggedly behind Dave.

  Clarence risks a turn to view the horde coming behind them. They’re gaining. The undulations of the ankle snapping ground not causing them such a concern. This ground is too open. No cover. They’ll catch them within minutes.

  ‘Dave…got…got to…cut them down…’ Clarence heaves the words out.

  ‘Keep going,’ Dave stops dead, turns and raises the assault rifle to aim at the horde. As Reginald passes him the first shot booms clear into the air. A head shot that bursts the skull clean off with a pink mist hanging in the air. Second shot and another skull bursts. Third, fourth. They start to weave side to side but he fixes aim, tracks and fires. One by one they are killed outright. They weave faster but the effect is the same. Dave doesn't miss. Dave doesn't get tired and once the front section is dropped he turns and runs after Clarence, passing him and Reginald with ease as he gains the front once again.

  The back of their row of buildings is passed and they turn with the contour to get level with the back of the next row and the distinct sight of Paula and Roy sprinting flat out from a huge line of infected charging after them. The danger is obvious, the horde are gaining as Roy stays with Paula to urge her on.

  Paula turns with a frantic look and tries with every ounce of effort to drive power into her legs. It’s no good. The infected are too fast, too pumped up and relentless. The tiny nuances of concern that the ground is so bumpy it risks tripping over and that sole thought takes the edge of their speed and saps the strength from their legs. A tree line in the distance but even that won’t help them. It breaks the ground up but doesn't offer any defensible point.

  Shots from the side and they snatch a view to see Dave sprinting flat out with the rifle aimed and firing into the horde so close behind Paula and Roy. Head shot after head shot takes them down but it’s not enough.

  ‘FIRE ON THEM,’ Dave calculates the danger and can see the other two will be overrun within seconds. They have to fire and cull the numbers, ‘PAULA…FIRE ON THEM…’

  The two come to a sudden stop and trusting Dave implicitly they turn and start firing straight into the ranks coming after them. Gunfire from both sides. Clarence shooting as he runs. Dave firing. Paula picking her shots. Roy giving burst fire.

  Dave lowers his rifle, the magazine empty. He locks eyes on the very front of the horde and drops back to hand his weapon to a panting terrified Reginald. Then he runs. Opening his stride while drawing the knives from his belt. Feet brushing the surface of the ground.

  ‘I AM DAVE…I WILL KILL YOU,’ he roars with fury at being separated from Mr Howie and the trickle of fear coursing his veins, ‘FIGHT ME…I AM DAVE…’ at the last second before impact he calculates the kills to be done. That big man coming towards him will be sliced with his right hand then the woman behind him on the follow through. The two behind them will be done in succession, twist and a gap will form and he can take the old lady and the young man.

  ‘PAULA…FIRE ON THOSE BEHIND CLARENCE…’

  The impact is almighty. The big man has his throat cut. The woman behind him drops on the follow through. Two more sliced and dead and into the gap where the old lady is cut from behind and the young man has the artery in his groin opened. Amongst them now he plays to his advantage of densely packed bodies unable to turn and react fast enough. Slice and kill. Spin into a gap planned three kills ago. Go low and stab up, go up and leap, slice at the throat as he comes down.

  The three remaining guns turn on the horde behind Clarence. Withering fire that cuts them down. Magazines are changed while Reginald gibbers and holds the assault rifle given to him by Dave clutched to his chest. Heaving for air. His mind panicking with the intense danger. Blinking as he watches Dave slaughter them one after the other. Watching the horde behind being cut down by the high velocity rounds tearing through them.

  ‘GO,’ Dave drops the last one and spots the fresh hordes streaming from the houses. Too many to kill and not enough ammunition to do the job. They have
to run and gain a defensible position or a bottleneck that will force them into single or double file attack.

  ‘Dave…’ Clarence shouts the warning as he spots another huge horde running free from a tree line at the end of the meadow.

  Three distinct thick hordes now. From the houses immediately behind them. From the side where they ran from and from the tree line.

  ‘We’re being shepherded,’ Paula states, ‘can we fight them here?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Clarence says, ‘run…go for the other tree line and we’ll work back to the village and find the lads…Paula on point but for fuck’s sake run.’

  Dave growls with intense fury. Forced to run away when he knows he could get through them with ease. He could simply run through the horde and kill those that get in his way and find Mr Howie but the team are running out of ammunition and without him they’ll die. Mr Howie will be displeased if he leaves them. His face shows a rare look of emotion at the conflict within his soul.

  So they run. Shepherded and forced into a route chosen for them.

  Gunfire in the far distance. Four rifles firing together. The lads are alive and fighting from the direction they are running towards. That gives them hope. Find the lads, regroup and get back for Mr Howie.

  They all feel it. Unvoiced and unspoken. If the infected are so pumped they have forced this reaction from everyone else, how the hell will the boss cope on his own with Marcy?

  To them, Howie is immortal. Nothing can touch him. A supermarket manager driven with an ethereal ability to kill vast opposition without hesitation. His speed matches Dave. His ferocity is greater than an angry Clarence. He is immune. Special. Chosen. Howie will fix this. He is the one to make this better.

  But still. One man on his own? Against something like this? The thought is too dreadful to be considered on a conscious level. The consequences are too awful. Without Howie there is no future.