Blood at the Premiere: A Day One Undead Adventure

by RR Haywood

  Henrietta times the approach knowing they’ll have to run fast and properly as soon as they hit the edge of the smoke bank. Adrenaline pulses in her body that serves to increase the grim determination to get through this and to keep these three alive.

  ‘Hold your breath.’ This is it. This is the time to run. She knows it. They know it. ‘NOW.’ So they do. They run into a choking bank of hot smoke that instantly burns their eyes. A wall of heat like nothing they have ever felt before. Dry and charged with burning particles that drift in front of their eyes and land hot and scalding on their skin. With hands clamped over mouths and bent double they stay to within inches of one another for to step aside will mean they are lost in the fog. Not daring to breathe they run low and awkward. Eyes burning and bodies screaming for air, they go on being led by Henrietta at the front and Brian at the back. All sense of direction is gone within seconds. They could be going in circles or veering left or right towards the fire. They can’t see the ground but catch glimpses of burning, fiery objects that they step over and round. Debris blocks their path and those hands have to clamp ever harder to stop themselves sucking in the air. It goes on forever and always and never stops and for a while Henrietta gives her mind over to the fact they died and this is hell. This is the eternal damnation of a life done wrong and too many sins to be forgiven. There can be no end because surely they would have reached it by now. Seconds, minutes, hours and days they seemingly spend traipsing with increasing desire to breathe. Thirst and fear are powerful, but nothing overcomes the need for air and that need presses. It becomes consuming as the body radiates warning signals. Vision reducing. Limbs going weird and ungainly, like they don’t belong. Hearing fading. Senses dulling. Feeling faint, dizzy. Black spots showing. Dreamlike, and the mind sends soothing messages that this is a mirage, it’s make-believe, go on and breathe, it’s okay, go on, take in some air. Do it now. BREATHE IN. BREATHE IN OR DIE.

  Rose goes first. Too young, too stupid, not drunk enough, not scared enough or a hundred other reasons that all merge and entwine into an action that has her hand lifting and her mouth opening to suck in the beautiful air. She coughs once. Twice. Then retches with a spasm as her body rejects the foul gases drawn into her lungs. She sinks down to her knees and all sense is gone. She is nothing. She is already dead. She cannot breathe but still her body wants air so she sucks more harmful smoke and more damage is done.

  Her father’s hand into her armpit lifting her up. Her father’s shoulder pressing into her stomach and suddenly she’s upside down being carried to bed early for being naughty and vomiting on the floor from the coughing fit. Will he cut the story short to fuck Ivana? Rose hates Ivana. She hates her ice-cold beauty and the physical perfection of the woman that has her father eating from her hand. She hates the attention taken from her and the vodka. Vodka? Vodka in her throat and a hand pulling her head up by the hair, but she’s still bouncing on her father’s shoulder being carried to bed. Why is Ivana pouring vodka down her throat now? She pukes again and the vodka takes some of the grease and fire from her throat. More pushed into her mouth and over her face. She vomits again but when she breathes back in it’s air that flows instead of smoke. Hot air. Tainted, filthy air but air nonetheless.

  ‘Go easy…’ A female voice sounding strained as though under pressure.

  ‘I am.’ A young man speaking but he sounds drunk and slurred.

  ‘Alley, Henrietta…’ Rose knows that voice, too.

  ‘One on the other side, too,’ the woman grunts. ‘Throw something down there…’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Dolan, your jacket. Throw your jacket into that alley and we’ll take the other one.’

  ‘But…the dry-cleaners charge a fortune…’

  ‘Please, Dolan!’

  ‘Brian, get Dolan’s jacket and throw it…good, now this way…quickly and stay quiet. Bennie, how is she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rose.’

  ‘Who? Oh, Rose! Ha, sorry. Er…yep, she’s on your shoulder.’

  ‘Is she alive?’

  ‘She’s puking so it’s hard to tell.’

  ‘Jesus, Bennie.’

  Chapter Eleven

  You’re Henrietta Swallow. Nothing touches you

  Panic, run and recover. A sequence of actions played out for several hours that have gone by in the blink of an eye, yet it seems this night will last forever.

  They run down the alley from the new and shiny London past walls marked with generations of graffiti made by anti-establishment teenagers who eventually became the bankers and policymakers. Punks and mods. New romantics. Goths, emos, urban kids with pockets full of pills, weed and cash. The disenfranchised who rejected normality until they grew hungry and bored and so accepted that normality of a life with a job and a house and a garden.

  The walls grow older. The bricks more damaged and the cement lines between them are deeper, flakier. The ground beneath them was once bricked, then concreted and now broken with ruts and trip hazards.

  A long, straight, narrow run between high walls that opens out to a wide yard bordered on one side by railway arches supporting a train line high above the ground. Old work units set into the arches secured with thick wooden doors and faded signs offering MOTs and Castrol oil on special offer.

  The third unit down and a weak lock already prised off many times by thieves searching for goods to sell for drugs to buy. A few kicks and a strike from an old tyre iron found in the weeds and the lock was once again snapped away, giving entry to a unit stinking of engine oil, fuel, smoke, body odour, vomit and vodka.

  The five sit on the ground gasping for air as quietly as possible. Chests heaving, eyes smarting and throats burning. Henrietta shifts position, sitting hunched over with her legs stretched out in front and feeling her dress becoming glued to her back from the puke sent down by Rose. It stinks. Everything stinks, but she forces herself to sit up straight and open her airways to breathe deep and steady. The urge to keep going was strong but she knew they needed rest.

  Her mind still works clear and she pictures the run they made past the burning building through the thick bank of smoke that obscured the view of the chasers. She thinks of Dolan’s jacket left in the mouth of the other alley in the hope the infected will get through the smoke and go in the opposite direction. She also gives mind to the lack of emergency services and how that building will burn and spread until the whole block is engulfed in flames. Staying here for a few minutes is okay but they’re too close to that fire.

  ‘Bennie,’ she whispers, holding her hand out for the bottle still clutched in his hand. He passes it with a fresh look of worry etched on his face at the threat of losing his precious booze. ‘Don’t worry.’ She smiles with a twitch of her lips, reading his expression, takes a big mouthful and swishes it to rinse the grease and taste of smoke away. The temptation to swallow is strong and she has to force herself to spit the liquid aside.

  ‘Rose, you okay?’ she asks in a voice still hoarse from the smoke.

  ‘No.’ Rose’s dull, sulky tone floats from the huddled form lying in the foetal position. ‘I’m so not okay.’

  ‘You’re talking. You’re okay,’ Henrietta says. ‘Dolan?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Oh yeah, great. Fucking wonderful. This is the best night of my life.’

  ‘Okay, Brian?’

  ‘Fine, Henrietta. Knackered…but…’

  ‘What about me?’ Bennie asks.

  ‘I was coming to you,’ Henrietta says.

  ‘Yeah? What now?’

  ‘Cheeky sod.’ She grins despite the dire situation. ‘You must be okay if you’re joking.’

  ‘I’m drunk.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So fucking drunk.’

  ‘Stop drinking then.’

  ‘Nah.’

  Brian clears his throat and edges forward, closer into the rough circle. ‘Think Simon made it?’

  ‘No idea,’ Henrie
tta replies, shuddering with the memory of the look on Simon’s face and the maniacal laughter echoing off the walls of the stairwell. The silence stretches. Awkward and heavy.

  ‘Is anyone hurt?’ Henrietta asks, more to break the silence than anything else. ‘Rose?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Seriously? Where?’

  ‘Like, everywhere and my jeans are totally ruined and my mascara is running down my face and…’

  ‘Brian? You hurt?’

  ‘Nah, just in shock I think.’

  ‘Dolan?’

  ‘Yes, I am hurt. I am bruised. My feet hurt. My legs hurt and my chest hurts…’

  ‘Bennie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Er…don’t think so.’

  Silence. Heavy and long. Muffled noises of a city at war. Screaming. Shouting. The sharp retort of a gunshot makes them all flinch.

  ‘What do we do?’ Brian asks, blurting the question out.

  ‘Do?’ Dolan’s reply is scathing and instant. ‘Do? What can we fucking do? We stay here and wait is what we do.’

  ‘We can’t stay here.’

  ‘Why not?’ Dolan asks, glaring at Henrietta as though all of this is her fault.

  ‘The fire.’

  ‘The fire?’

  She nods. ‘Fire spreads.’

  He lifts his eyebrows at the reply and leans forward to give his own response. ‘Not as fast as your legs, though, my dear. We’ll be safe here for…’

  ‘Henrietta’s celery,’ Bennie says, trying to gallantly lurch to her defence with a slur of words.

  ‘Celibate, you fucking moron. The word is celibate. CELIBATE. Can you remember that?’

  ‘You’re a cunt,’ Bennie says.

  ‘I beg your pardon…’ Dolan sputters indignantly

  ‘Enough. Stop it,’ Henrietta says, waving her hand at the men who were too frightened to be brave outside so now make up for it by a display of quasi bravery.

  ‘Do not tell me what to do,’ Dolan says in full authority.

  I’ve been telling you what to do all night. ‘Of course, sorry.’

  ‘I have kept us alive this long and I will continue to keep us alive, but only if we stay here.’

  ‘Yeah, about that,’ Bennie says, hiccupping.

  ‘About what?’ Dolan asks with a heavy sigh as though bored by anything Bennie says.

  ‘Henrietta’s kept us alive and you’re still a cunt.’

  Dolan surges to his feet with an explosion of impotent rage. ‘Do not keep calling me a cunt,’ Dolan says, half shouting, but enough sense in his head forces his voice to stay low so he gives a shouted whisper that comes out hoarse and cracking.

  ‘Cunt,’ Bennie says simply and looks away to take another mouthful of vodka. ‘Ah bollocks,’ he whines at the dribble of liquid coming out and looks sadly at the empty bottle.

  Henrietta watches the emotions play out as Dolan seethes with righteous fury in a world where nobody ever calls him a cunt, at least not to his face. He is consumed with fear and ever-rising panic of a situation only getting worse by the minute. Think smart. Think clearly. You need Dolan, but we can’t stay here. Think, Henrietta.

  ‘Dolan, what if they come here?’ she asks softly with a scared glance at the doors. ‘Where do we go?’

  ‘Go?’ Dolan echoes her last word with a lurch round on the spot, trying to find another way out.

  ‘Is there another way out?’ she asks, already knowing there isn’t.

  ‘Er…’ He turns a full circle. ‘No…no, there isn’t.’

  ‘If they track us…’ She plants the suggestion and waits, sensing Brian watching her closely while Bennie wrestles to unscrew the cap on the whiskey with Rose edging ever closer towards him.

  ‘They might track us,’ Dolan mutters to himself, narrowing his eyes. ‘There’s no way out…’

  ‘But we can stay here, right?’ Henrietta asks. ‘I mean, we’ll be safe here…won’t we?’

  Brain sniffs the air with two big theatrical inhalations through his nose. ‘What is that smell? Is that smoke?’

  ‘Smoke?’ Henrietta asks, injecting some alarm into her voice.

  ‘Duh,’ Bennie says, rolling his eyes, ‘there’s, like, a huge fire just round the corner.’

  Christ, this is painful. Come on, you bloody idiot.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be safe here.’ Finally Dolan makes the connection, muttering into his beard with his hands on his hips, looking serious and manly.

  ‘Really?’ Brian asks lightly, too lightly, and earns a sharp look from Henrietta. He motions an apology just missed by Dolan turning decisively to face them.

  ‘We may have to leave.’

  ‘Really?’ Moron.

  ‘I think so,’ he says firmly, then falters, withers, flounders and finally sags. ‘Er…I…’

  ‘Good idea,’ she says before he can think his way out of it. ‘We’ll do what Dolan says.’ She gets to her feet, wincing at the feel of the sticky puke drying on her back. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Way?’ Dolan whimpers, his hands once more pressing into his forehead.

  ‘Out of the city, right?’ Henrietta half asks and half suggests while nodding and sending a subliminal message. Brian stands up and sidles into view of Dolan to add his own emphatic nodding.

  ‘Yes,’ Dolan says slowly. ‘Out of the city…we should leave the city.’

  ‘I think that’s a good idea,’ Henrietta says, looking at Brian.

  ‘Me, too,’ Brian agrees.

  ‘Rose?’ Henrietta turns to the young woman now sitting up and staring at Bennie with adoration again. ‘Which way to leave the city?’

  ‘Totally,’ Rose says, not looking round.

  ‘Rose?’ Henrietta presses more firmly. ‘Which way out of the city?’

  ‘Huh?’ Rose, realising she is being addressed, finally looks round then up to the three adults staring down at her. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You live here,’ Henrietta says, biting down the impatience. ‘Which way to leave the city?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Rose shrugs, nonchalant and thereby disposing of any responsibility.

  ‘Think, Rose. Are we in north London? South London? Where is the Thames from here?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Thames. The river.’

  ‘I dunno.’ Rose shrugs again.

  ‘Okay,’ Henrietta says, closing her eyes for a second. ‘Do you go to school in the city?’

  ‘Yeah, like, this private school but I hate it because I’m bullied and that’s why I need to be a dancer in a nightclub and…’

  ‘How do you get to school? Do you go on the Tube?’

  ‘Like, no,’ Rose says, snorting with disdain. ‘You get AIDS on the Tube.’

  ‘You don’t get AIDS on the Tube. How do you get to school?’

  ‘I have a driver,’ Rose says, stating the obvious.

  ‘You drive? So which way…I mean…when you’re in the car what landmarks do you see?’

  ‘Oh…oh right…like, I got this…’ Rose says, excited at the attention. ‘We go past Starbucks and my driver gets me a skinny latte…then I watch YouTube on my iPad.’

  ‘Jesus, Rose. You must know where you live.’

  ‘Yeah, like, totally. My dad owns the building.’

  ‘Right. Okay. I see. Rose, where in London is your apartment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in London.’

  ‘Give up,’ Brian whispers, turning his head away from Rose. ‘Dolan, you work in London. You must have an idea where we are?’

  ‘Do you have any idea how many fucking engagements I attend each month? No? A lot. That’s how many, and I gave up trying to figure where the fuck I am a long time ago.’

  ‘We’re underneath a railway,’ Henrietta says, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Maybe we could follow that.’

  ‘It might go further into the city, though,’ Brian says.

  ‘Or,’ Henrietta
says, lowering her head to look at Brian, ‘the station it leads to might have a map on the wall.’

  ‘Ah,’ Brian says. ‘But that means going up into the station…if there is a station, that is.’

  ‘We follow the tracks to find the station and use the station to find out where we are,’ Henrietta says, forming the plan as she speaks. ‘Plus, the travel networks might have guards or police or at least someone…’

  ‘Police?’ Dolan asks, seizing on the one word heard that promises him a way out of this nightmare.

  ‘Maybe,’ Henrietta says. ‘But you’re in charge, Dolan. What do you want to do?’

  ‘Find the police.’

  ‘So we follow the track to find a station to work out where we are and hope we find the police. Is that what you want to do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good plan, Dolan,’ Henrietta says firmly.

  ‘Well done,’ Brian says without a trace of sarcasm.

  ‘Is there a sink in here?’ Henrietta asks, looking round the gloomy interior. ‘Bennie, give me your phone again. I need the torch.’

  ‘Okay,’ Bennie says obligingly and passes the bottle of whiskey to Rose while lying flat on his back to dig his hands into the pockets of his skinny jeans.

  ‘Sink?’ Brian asks.

  ‘For water,’ Henrietta says. ‘Bennie? Where is it?’

  ‘Can’t find it…’

  ‘He gave it to you earlier,’ Brian says. ‘We must have dropped it.’

  We? Henrietta blinks at the simple use of the word that shows a collective responsibility. ‘Rose, have you got your phone?’

  The girl coughs from the harsh whiskey burning her throat and bringing fresh tears to her eyes.

  ‘Bennie,’ Henrietta tuts with a huff, taking the bottle from Rose. ‘Brian, keep hold of this.’

  ‘Got it,’ Brian says, taking the bottle.

  ‘Hey.’ Bennie sits up in alarm reaching for the bottle of amber liquid.

  ‘No more,’ Henrietta says, slapping his hand away. ‘Rose, give me your phone.’

  ‘I’m, like…’ Rose coughs, hacks, heaves and groans, ‘totally dying…’

  ‘You’re not dying. Give me your phone.’

  ‘Selfie?’ Rose asks, gasping the word out. ‘Can I do my make-up first?’