The Undead Day Seventeen

by RR Haywood

  The chain squeaks and rubs. The boy laughs and the nihilism settles in Gregori with a plunging sinking sensation. It drives him down into despair the like of which he has never felt. Gregori never felt anything. He was a machine that gave death. Emotions course through his body, his hands shake and tremble and tears prick the backs of his eyes. He opens his mouth, stretching the jaw in an attempt to rid the feeling.

  The boy laughs and the chain squeaks while the maggots writhe and the bodies rot in the blazing sun. It’s too hot. Gregori sweats. That damned chain squeaks too much. Those bodies are dead. Torn apart and they would have been running, fleeing, hiding, fighting to live. Just like every victim did when Gregori came. The ugly man who appeared like a ghost in the middle of houses and streets. The ugly man who never ran but walked with a steady pace, who never flinched from the bullets sent his way and never missed with the bullets he sent back.

  His parents gave him up. A debt settled with a human life. The ultimate rejection. Beaten. Starved. Tortured and trained.

  The tears stream down his face as the twisting emotions grip his gut. Despair, depression into anxiety that everything was for nothing. There was no purpose. There is no purpose. Nothing has purpose.

  ‘Harder, Gregoreeeeeee.’

  The chain rubs and squeaks and Gregori wipes the back of his hands across his pock-marked cheeks to dry the salty tears. His bottom lip trembles so he clenches his jaw and feels a surge of fear from the emotions so new to him.

  Everything for nothing. There is no point. Kill the boy then kill yourself. Two bullets bang bang and it’s all done. Sleep forever and pray there is no god waiting for a reason for there was no reason. There is no reason. The bird hops away too full and fat to take instant flight. Blood. Bone showing through the ragged flesh.

  A groan to the side and a body shuffling from an open door to a house. The head lolling to the side. Another further up, more further down. Red eyed, useless, slow, cumbersome and ungainly. More men and more women and more children to be cut open and sliced to death.

  Why go on? Why? For what? There is no home. No place to go. No lessons to be learnt or forgiveness to be given.

  Kill the boy. End it. Kill yourself. Die. Be nothing because you are nothing. You were given up as a debt and used as a tool. The boy doesn't love you. This world doesn't love you. This world hates you for what you are. End the life of the boy. End yourself and fall down so the fat maggots can writhe in your corpse.

  Staggering away from the swing he sways and lurches to the fence, falling and tripping from the exact profound knowledge that there is nothing. Die. Die now and be done with it. There is no reason for being here. There is nowhere else to go.

  His chest tightens, constricts and breathing is hard. Gasping for breath he tries to walk but the fence blocks his way. He slides and falls, gets up and staggers on while the boy twists round and laughs in delight. A cackle that fills the air. A wild sound of no humour and of no love. He doesn't love you. He hates you. You are nothing. All you have given is suffering and death.

  A pistol in hand. How did it get there? He has no recollection of drawing it but the signals from brain to hand are so versed it required no conscious thought. Aiming now. Aiming at a boy swinging back and forth on a chain that squeaks. He tracks. He sways and tenses to lock the bead. His breath pushing from his nose while the other hand splays out with fingers wide on his chest.

  ‘Hahahaha,’ the boy mocks and taunts, he knows no fear or regret but only to cause pain, ‘hahahahaha,’ laughing at him, laughing at the sad man with no life who points a pistol with the promise of giving yet more death. Left to right he tracks the boy and knows with everything he is that if he pulls the trigger the boys head will be blown apart. He is Gregori and Gregori never misses. They trained him well and they beat him hard to cement those lessons into his mind.

  Without inertia applied the swing slows through the pendulum and another wave of absolute despair pulls Gregori down to his knees. He whimpers, rallies and lifts then growls at the desire to be dead.

  ‘I GREGORI,’ he screams to the world, to the bodies and the fat bird, ‘I GREGORI…’ he is the Ugly Man. The Albanian. The bringer of death and the exacter of vengeance but he weeps now like a child. Tears pouring down his face. Tears that course from the bulging eyes and slide over the dented, pitted skin to the corners of his cruel thin lips.

  One shot. Two shot. Three shots and the bodies are blown away. Spinning on the spot he takes wild plucks of the trigger at the infected shuffling down the street but even his wildest shots with tears blurring his eyes are direct hits.

  Why now? A sudden deep and creeping realisation that there is a reason, a conspiracy. He was led to this. He was brought here to suffer this very thing. It’s been coming for a long time and now it’s here. Happening. What’s happening?

  ‘I GREGORI,’ he bellows with spittle flying from his lips and the boy slides off the swing to skip gaily over.

  ‘I GREGORI,’ the boy copies the man, bending from the waist and clutching his chest while staggering round in tight lurching circles.

  Gregori’s eyes widen at the mocking, at the cruelty of the boy. At how he laughs and copies the pain the Albanian feels. Away, he must get away from the boy and return to the…go back to…

  He runs, slamming into the gate and taking seconds through the fog of confusion to realise it must be pulled and not pushed. Wrenched open and into the street, pistol in hand, one hand on his chest and he weeps and cries. Behind him the boy lurches in exaggerated steps with his own hand clutching his chest and half laughing half crying to copy the man.

  Away from the van they run. Further up the street which is now filled with the walking corpses that should have died decently. He aims but loses heart to kill anymore and drops the pistol on the ground.

  ‘I GREGORI,’ the boy grabs the pistol and aims it at the staggering forms ahead. The trigger is pulled which sends the firing pin into the cartridge which ignites the primer to send the bullet flying from the barrel and the boy flying back off his feet onto his arse with a stunned look on his face.

  Gregori pays no heed and runs, he runs staggering and lurching but he runs. He slams into a slow moving creature who bares teeth and lunges at the last second but Gregori has instinct and that instinct drops a shoulder into the chest that sends the woman sprawling away. Gregori spins from the impact into the path of another and whips out a vicious open handed slap that drives the drooling man to the ground. Round and round he goes. Feet not knowing direction. Eyes not seeing. Ears not hearing but still he fights them and still he wins.

  The boy, on his feet and still clutching the pistol, charges after Gregori. Calling his name, calling him again and again but the Albanian doesn't hear it. The Albanian is feeling every repressed emotion from a most horrid life. The guilt from every death is present. The pity for his own childhood taken from him. The pain he suffered from the physical beatings and the deeper pain of rejection from a family that used him to pay a debt. His whole world crumbling in an instant and within that conscious stream of whirling thoughts he knows he was fine just a few minutes ago but now he is not fine and will never be fine again.

  The world is cruel but he is crueller still. Existence is suffering. Existence is futile. Everything is futile. End it now. Lie down and die. Let the maggots feast on your bloated corpse and feel not these emotions.

  He stops. Sudden and staring without blinking, without breathing. His hands fall to his sides and he drops painfully to his knees that sends a jarring crunch through his body. Surrounded by red bloodshot eyes. Surrounded by death and he welcomes it. He welcomes it as he can no longer breathe the air of this world. He slumps to the side and closes his eyes, waiting, longing to feel the teeth sink into his flesh and deliver the deadly virus that will end his life. It’s what you deserve. It’s what you are. You will come back as a drooling thing that has no mind.

  The sun is hot and beats down. Insects buzz in the charged air. Seconds become minutes that
stretch and very slowly, so very slowly, Gregori becomes aware that nothing has happened. The tightness in his chest eases. His breathing recovers to a normal state and his eyes open to take in the tiny valleys and peaks of the tarmac beneath his face.

  ‘Gregoreee, can we go back to the park now.’

  He rolls onto his front and up onto his knees to twist round and look at the boy sitting cross legged a few feet away with the pistol in his lap, ‘we didn’t go on the slide,’ the boy says, ‘do you like the slide, Gregoreee?’

  The bulging eyes blink and look round. He was down for a while, long minutes of self-pity that gave time for slow feet to shuffle and get closer. They did get closer. They all got closer and stopped.

  A street filled with them. Adults and children, elderly and young and every single one stands still and facing away from Gregori and the boy. Not a few, not tens but hundreds. Hundreds of them that fill the street in both directions and stand unmoving while the boy sits with his legs crossed and his chin cupped in one hand.

  Gregori’s heart was racing when his mind fractured and now it races again. Thundering in his chest as he springs to his feet and moves like lightning to snatch the pistol from the boys lap at the same time as drawing the second pistol from his waistband. Arms stretched, pistols aimed and he moves round the boy.

  ‘Do you? Do you like the slide, Gregoreee? I like the slide…and then we can go on the roundabout and then we can go on the seesaw…haha, seesaw majory door…do you know that rhyme, Gregoreee? Can we have a puppy?’

  The adrenalin released into his body demands usage lest he be left shaking and trembling. Force is needed and force is applied as he pistol whips the closest body with a dull crack to the back of her skull.

  ‘Don’t hit Sarah,’ the boys tone is low and accusing, his eyes squinting up petulant and sulky.

  ‘Sarah? Who Sarah? This Sarah?’ Gregori spits the questions out while his mind loses its grip on reality.

  ‘And that’s Thomas and that’s Derek and…’ the boy points to the drooling bodies standing so close, ‘on his feet and he starts skipping and pointing them out, ‘John and Sundip and Mandy and Ishmail and…’

  Name after name is given and suddenly the boy stops in front of an obese woman, a giant staring down at a child that stares up with wide eyes, ‘she’s so fat,’ he mouths in awe, ‘and that’s Carl and that’s Jennifer and…’

  ‘STOP,’ Gregori roars at the boy, ‘boy you stop, stop now…I KILL YOU,’ he lifts the pistol and aims at the boy who laughs and dodges swiftly back to hide behind the fat woman’s legs.

  The gun booms, the bullet flies and the fat woman drops with a thud to the floor leaving the boy staring down at the brains scattered on the ground, ‘you made her brains come out,’ he says quietly, ‘oh wow…Gregoreee, do all the brains look the same?’

  ‘How you do this?’ Gregoree paces towards the boy with the pistol held ready, ‘how? How you do this? You tell me.’

  ‘Why are they grey? There was a book and it had pink brains but all the brains you make come out are grey not pink…’

  ‘How?’ Gregoree seethes with fear of something he can’t understand and can’t comprehend, ‘tell me, Boy…how you do this?’

  ‘Are the brains…’ the words are cut off as his feet leave the floor. Gregori lifts the boy with one hand gripped to his upper arm, ‘GET OFF ME,’ the boy erupts in instant temper.

  ‘HOW?’

  ‘GETOFFME.’

  ‘How, Boy? You tell me how?’ Gregori shakes hard, heaving the boy back and forth while digging his fingers into the soft flesh of the boys arm, ‘tell me…tell me…’

  ‘GETOFF,’ the boy thrashes and kicks, his face flushing bright red from temper.

  ‘You tell me…I kill you now…I KILL YOU, BOY…’

  The boy screams in fury, bucking harder, kicking wildly and not heeding the pain that must be shooting through his body.

  A hand raises, the time is right and Gregori knows the will of the child must be subdued. Again the boy spots it and lifts his head daring the man to strike, his small blue eyes so cold and taunting.

  A single open handed slap delivered across the cheek and boy’s head snaps to the side but what snaps back is fury so wild it makes Gregori hesitate before striking again.

  The boy growls and the infected growl with him. Hundreds of voices growling low in their throats and turning slowly on the spot to glare with wide eyes at the man holding the child.

  ‘This wrong,’ Gregori says in a hoarse whisper and glares round at the bodies ranged all about them, ‘come…we go.’

  He drags the boy back down the street to the van. The boy huffs, bucks, tries to pull away but then gives in and runs along at the side of the man. The boy is lifted into the van and makes no attempt to run off when Gregori slams the doors and moves round to the driver’s side. The engine is started, the van backs away and uses a junction to turn before heading back down the road and away from the still turning undead all staring after the boy.

  Thirty-Three

  ‘FIRE…down and fire…up and fire…forward stop fire…down…get up run forward…fire…Nicholas you have a misfire…clear it….clear it…now fire.’

  I hate golf, always have.

  ‘Marcy you have a misfire, clear it…take the magazine out…back in…out…in…out…IN…OUT…down and fire…blockage, clear the weapon….’

  A golf hotel was a lucky find though. A nice squat building in the middle of a massive golf course, couldn’t get a better place to lay up for the night really.

  ‘Simon, Patricia, Charlotte, Mohammed, Marcy, Paula you are team alpha, go back to the wall now. Alex, Nicholas, Roy, Clarence, Reginald and Mr Howie, you are team bravo…go to the other wall…team alpha will step forward and fire as one on my command….FIRE….Team bravo will step forward and fire on Clarence’s command…’

  ‘Team bravo…FIRE…’

  ‘Alpha…FIRE…’

  ‘Bravo FIRE.’

  A nice big restaurant, big kitchens and a shop full of shiny golf clubs. Breaking in was easy. Clarence was going to batter the doors open until Mo Mo shimmied up a drain pipe, cracked a sky light, dropped down and opened the door from the inside. He’s got some useful skills that lad.

  ‘Bravo you all have blockages…clear those weapons.’

  ‘Alpha, magazine change…’

  The restaurant tables and chairs were cleared away, stacked to the sides so we had space to do this.

  ‘ALPHA DOWN…’

  ‘BRAVO UP…’

  Get drilled. Drilled and drilled. Dry firing weapons. Changing magazines. Misfires and clearing the misfires. Running up, staggered firing lines, firing from our stomachs, on our knees, running, walking, turning. Dave and Clarence drilling with basic skills to help Charlie, Blinky, Marcy and Reginald all get used to the assault rifles.

  It is basic. Basic drills but that’s all we’ve got time for. Learn to shoot and learn to change the magazine and clear a misfire. Blowers and the lads help the others and I didn’t need to do this, being the leader I could have slouched on a chair and watched everyone else. That didn’t seem right though and all skills are good skills.

  ‘Alpha and bravo you have run out of ammunition…you will sling the weapons and draw knives…DRAW…’

  Knives are pulled out and again we go through the basic killing movements. Stab, slash, backstab. Knives away, knives out, knives away, knives out. Getting used to the position of the scabbard and then ditching the knives to pull the weapons back round.

  Everyone works, including Reginald, especially Reginald. He focusses hard and mutters to himself when he gets things wrong, which he does frequently. He sweats hard and his face flushes and although there is a determination within him it’s obvious he’s not cut out for this type of work.

  A long day already and we’re all exhausted but I notice that Charlie and Blinky are absurdly fit and take to the drills with ease. The way they move, the confidence in their own physical forms and how t
o twist, drop, get up and run, and they don’t moan about the weight of the weapons either. Blinky loves it, you can tell instantly.

  ‘Room clearance,’ Dave announces, ‘everyone to reception…go go go…’

  We run out to the main reception to gather by the desk and stare down the corridor leading to the hotel rooms.

  ‘Pistols,’ Dave strides ahead of us and draws his pistol, ‘are held in a double handed grip…’

  Room clearance with pistols. Room clearance with assault rifles. Room clearance done on our own, in twos and threes. Room clearance done with hand weapons. Most of them are done by kicking the doors in until Mo Mo has his turn.

  ‘Mohammed,’ Dave says pointing at the next door and I swear there is a glimmer in those dull eyes.

  Mo Mo steps forward, sizes the door open and looks round with a slightly worried expression before producing a laminated card from a pocket. He slides the thing between the door and the frame, wriggles it back and forth while trying the handle then pops the door open to a brief stunned silence followed by a raucous cheer.

  ‘Show the team the method you deployed,’ Dave says stepping back as they all clamour in to watch Mo Mo close the door and start again.

  ‘You bloody knew,’ I say quietly to Dave at the back.

  ‘What, Mr Howie?’

  ‘You knew he would do that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I stare at Dave with pure shock on my face, ‘you’re giving a straight answer?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ he says dully.

  ‘An actual straight answer.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

  ‘So I asked you if you knew he would do that and you said yes, that you did know he would do that. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

  ‘Fuck me…’ I mutter quietly.