The Undead_Day 22

by R. R. Haywood

  Sentience gained in the kitchen of a farmhouse in the vast open countryside of northern England on a hot summers day as Cassie looks from Gregori to the boy and Gregori stops by the front door as he notices the hose pulled across the garden.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Cassie mutters, remembering she didn’t pull the hose back as the boy laughs at the naughty word while the infection gains sentience while Gregori turns to look at Cassie. ‘Ah whatever, I’m not going to lie…I gave them water last night…’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘Oh don’t start. They were thirsty…’

  Water. The boy looks to the tap on the sink. Water gives life. All things need water. It knows where Howie is. It knows where the water comes from for the golf hotel that Howie is within. A treatment centre that it can find and access and bleed into.

  The boy eats his fruit, smiling at Cassie and Gregori arguing over water and the hose, but the argument is different to how they argued before. Less angry. The boy doesn’t care. He feels loved.

  Seventeen

  Day Twenty-five

  ‘That’s a lot of water,’ Clarence remarks, staring out the windscreen of the Saxon at the drizzle falling from the sky then across the rain-soaked ground.

  ‘Bloody is,’ Howie replies as Clarence looks at the rope burns on his arms from last night when he jumped into the river to save Paula and Meredith. Everything so chaotic and done on instinct but it’s those times when the senses come alive the most and he remembers the feel of Paula’s body as she pressed against him and when she turned to wrap her arms around his neck. It was life or death and they were in utter peril but in such a wrong way it felt so right.

  A burst of laughter in the back and he shifts his colossal weight to turn and look, catching eye contact with Paula as he does so. A brief smile. Awkward and strange and she bites her bottom lip, turning to Blowers. ‘How was drill?’ she asks.

  ‘Bloody awesome!’ Tappy calls out from the other side. Her face still flushed from running up and down the street with Blowers shouting and Jess thundering past and arrows and guns firing.

  ‘Yeah it was good,’ Blowers replies. ‘Danny’s coming on well, you can tell he was a cadet…he just gets it.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Paula says, smiling at Danny who grins at the compliment, dropping his head to look shyly at his boots.

  ‘Got some bollocks about him too,’ Cookey adds.

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ Nick says. ‘Went over that rope yesterday…’

  ‘Bless him,’ Paula laughs, watching Danny squirm at the attention. ‘And Tappy?’

  ‘Oh god, fucking awful,’ Blowers says.

  ‘Shit,’ Cookey adds.

  ‘Useless,’ Nick joins in.

  ‘Er get fucked. I was awesome thank you,’ Tappy says, giving them the middle finger as Danny laughs along, glad of her extrovert nature willing to take the limelight from his introversion. ‘I did paintball,’ Tappy adds, looking at Paula.

  ‘You did what?’ Clarence asks, trying to turn round to see her.

  ‘Paintball,’ Tappy shouts. ‘Corporal Blowers said it shows…’

  ‘Yeah not in a good way though,’ Blowers says.

  ‘Fuck off! You said I was good,’ Tappy says. ‘And I played Call of Duty and Battlefield…’

  ‘I would whup your ass at COD,’ Nick says.

  ‘Would you buggery,’ Tappy fires back.

  ‘So would.’

  ‘So wouldn’t, Nicholas.’

  ‘So would, Natasha.’

  ‘You’d both lose,’ Cookey says. ‘I am the king of COD…’

  ‘I loved zombies on Black Ops,’ Tappy says. ‘Which is a bit messed up now but…’

  ‘I’ve no idea what that is,’ Paula says.

  ‘Computer game,’ Blowers says. ‘Danny? You play?’

  ‘Er, sometimes, Corporal.’

  ‘What were you on? Xbox or Playstation?’

  ‘Er, my mate had an Xbox…’ Danny says, his face trying to hide the discomfort of the question and not wanting to explain that Kieron wouldn’t buy him clothes let alone anything like a games console.

  ‘I had to play at my mates too,’ Nick says. ‘Couldn’t afford one…’

  ‘Did you ever game?’ Tappy ask Charlie.

  ‘Did I what?’ Charlie asks.

  ‘Game, like a gamer,’ Tappy laughs. ‘Not like on the game…’

  ‘Er no, never…’

  ‘Charlie’s too posh,’ Cookey says.

  ‘I’m really not.’

  ‘Oh but gosh you really are,’ Cookey replies, putting on a posh voice but gently, not pushing too hard. They can all see Charlie still isn’t back with them properly. A distance in her eyes. An emotional wall still up. She smiles at the joke but not like the old Charlie. Tighter and without the humour reaching her eyes.

  ‘So er, what’s your tattoos?’ Cookey asks Tappy, subtly detecting the risk of an awkward silence.

  ‘Um so, my right arm is a carp,’ Tappy says, holding it out for everyone to see. ‘Like a Japanese fish with water lilies and flowers…got the whole vine thing going up round it then my left is a geisha girl and a native American warrior woman…then down there is a female soldier and a female cowgirl…I was really into emancipation and equality. I’d so add Charlie if I could find a tattooist,’ she adds with a laugh without any trace of weirdness at the compliment.

  ‘Charlie’s got a tattoo,’ Cookey says.

  ‘Have you!?’ Tappy asks.

  ‘Oh it’s nothing,’ Charlie says, rolling her eyes at Cookey. ‘Just a pair of hockey sticks on er…on my bottom.’

  ‘Tattooed arse,’ Tappy laughs. ‘Love it…we need to rescue a tattooist…’

  Here it comes, Paula thinks.

  ‘Hey, we should get tattoos,’ Cookey announces.

  And there it is, Paula thinks, smiling to herself.

  ‘Mads can draw,’ Mo says.

  ‘Maddox?’ Nick asks. ‘Am I fuck letting Maddox tattoo me…’

  ‘Nah bruv, he’s good.’

  In the van, Maddox frowns, shaking his head at Reginald. ‘Okay, I understand all of that. An engineered virus. Culling the population…I’m not sure I believe it’s gaining sentience but for now, I will accept it, but none of that explains how all of them, all of you, are together. How is Howie pulling you all together? Danny’s one of them, and Tappy. He literally just tripped over them as we’re driving about…’

  Reginald listens, nodding slowly. ‘A quandary indeed and alas, I am afraid that I simply do not have the answer. 95% of…of this situation can be explained with science but yes, there are significant gaps of knowledge.’

  ‘Mads, it’s Nick…we’re arguing in here. Mo said you can draw. Is that right?’ Nick transmits through the radio.

  ‘Yes a bit,’ Maddox replies. ‘I do not like not understanding things,’ he tells Reginald.

  ‘Mads, it’s Tappy…will you do me?’

  Maddox frowns at the question then at the laughing coming through the radio.

  ‘Sounds lively,’ Roy remarks from the front.

  ‘I meant tattoo!’ Tappy transmits through the noise. ‘Dirty sods…’

  ‘I’m not tattooing you,’ Maddox replies.

  ‘Switch on now. One ahead…’ Howie’s voice. Maddox reaches for his rifle, checking the magazine before pulling his pistol out to check as Reginald feels the first thrum of adrenalin.

  Howie slows the Saxon, Clarence peering out, looking ahead and left and right. Deep puddles on the road and small rivers running down the sides to the storm drains now full. The rain still coming but gently now. The sky grey and overcast. A single figure in the road ahead at the edge of town. A woman standing inert but buildings on both sides, windows, doors, alleys and junctions. This is work now and the Saxon fills with the muted sounds of bags being pulled on and everyone making ready.

  ‘He is coming,’ Clarence points off to the side of road next to the woman. A once white wall between two shopfronts now with words written in red paint. Th
e tin and brush still below. Recent too. The paint still dripping. The words He is coming clear and large.

  ‘Mo, stick by Marcy…’

  ‘On it,’ Mo calls back as the Saxon stops and they drop out. Blowers giving hand signals to his team, telling Danny and Tappy to stay close to him.

  ‘Mr Howie, it’s Maddox. Reginald’s coming out…he said don’t let the dog eat it…’

  ‘I’ve got her,’ Paula transmits, walking with her hand on Meredith’s neck.

  Howie goes forward, his rifle held ready. Clarence and Dave with him, both turning to scan and assess. Maddox rushing through everyone else, his rifle up as he escorts Reginald to the front, slowing as he reaches Howie. The two men staring at the woman.

  ‘Seen that,’ Howie says, prompting Reginald to look at the wall.

  ‘He is coming,’ Reginald reads. He looks at the woman. Her head high. Her posture straight. Arms at her sides. Only her eyes moving as she takes in the group. A tension in the air. A buzz even. Reginald’s eyes sparkling. Danny and Tappy with Blowers off to one side. Everyone watching. Everyone listening.

  ‘And who, my dear, is coming?’ Reginald asks.

  ‘One race,’ she says, her voice low and hoarse. ‘You are cruel…’

  ‘Oh fuck off,’ Howie groans.

  ‘No no, let it speak,’ Reginald says politely, studying the woman.

  ‘You are cruel,’ she says again. Howie goes to speak but detects the tiny movement in Reginald’s hand, stilling him to silence. ‘One race,’ she adds. Reginald watches her closely. She doesn’t blink or move but looks from Reginald to Howie. ‘You are cruel…’ seconds pass. ‘We are not cruel.’ Silence. ‘One race.’ Silence. ‘We are not cruel.’

  ‘I see,’ Reginald says.

  ‘Heard enough?’ Howie asks.

  ‘I have yes, thank you.’

  ‘Righto, Dave…fuck me that was quick,’ Howie adds as the shot rings out and the woman drops dead. ‘She seemed kinda stuck in a loop then.’

  ‘Indeed, she did, yes, a loop it was. Onwards then. Well done chaps. All very good.’

  They move on through the town. Nothing seen or heard. Meredith not reacting. Mo shaking his head. Storm damage everywhere. Telegraph poles down. Trees crashed through buildings. Roofs ripped off. Chimney stacks lying about the place.

  The far edge of the town and another woman waiting for them in the middle of the road. Head high. Arms at her sides.

  Howie and Reginald go forward. Clarence and Dave ready behind them. Paula holding Meredith.

  ‘You are cruel…one race…we are not cruel…’ a loop of words with silences in between but otherwise passive. They let Meredith take her down.

  They load up and drive on into a wide country road. A man standing half a mile down the road. Red eyes. Head high. The same words. The same passive manner. Howie shoots him.

  Load up and move on. Half a mile and another man. Older with his once neat white hair plastered to his scalp from the rain. The same words. The same loop. Shot dead and they move on.

  A village ahead. Sheltered within a valley with a deep wide river running through that seems to have absorbed the runoff from the hills surrounding it. A raging torrent now but contained within high banks and the Saxon slows as they reach the first thatched cottage with Howie expecting to see an infected waiting for them but seeing nothing.

  Clarence stirs in his seat. ‘Feels like a trap,’ he rumbles.

  ‘Does a bit,’ Howie replies, staring at the empty road leading to a bend ahead. An ominous feeling inside his guts. Something bad this way comes. ‘Fuck it…Charlie, mount up. Paula, drive the Saxon. Mads, this feels wrong. You drive the van and keep Reggie inside. Roy, out with us on foot…’

  ‘You sure about his, Howie?’ Paula asks.

  ‘Fuck ‘em,’ Howie replies, dropping out.

  ‘Everyone out,’ Blowers orders, sharing a quick grin with Cookey and Nick at the boss’s blood starting to rise. ‘Eyes up, no chat…Danny with me, Tappy stay close to Nick…’

  A few minutes for Charlie to mount up and push ahead to the bend. Gaining the first look round the corner and she holds her hand up, fist clenched. Indicating contact ahead.

  Everyone else tenses. Readying for a fight.

  ‘How many?’ Howie asks through the radio.

  ‘Er lots but…perhaps you should see this,’ Charlie transmits back, easing Jess who trots backwards tossing her head with power bunching in muscles. She can smell them and readies to charge. Charge now. Charge now. ‘Easy,’ Charlie guides her back as Howie walks up, his hand on Meredith’s neck. Clarence and Dave with him. Mo next to Marcy. Everyone ready.

  ‘What you got?’ Howie asks, breaching the corner to look down the wide main road, walking metres into the junction so the Saxon and van can come up behind. ‘Fuck me…’ he stops to take it in. They all do. A chorus of safety switches flicking off. Bolts pulling back and rifles bracing in shoulders. Meredith growling low and deep.

  A quaint village. Something from a postcard or the front of a box of country fudge. Thatched roofs everywhere. Overhanging eaves and swinging signs above shop doors. Windows cross-hatched with black metal strips. Olde worlde and no doubt an incredibly expensive place to live.

  ‘Reggie, come up front…’ Howie says quietly through the radio. Everyone waits, staring ahead while the van doors open and shut with Maddox ushering Reginald to the front. The small man slowing in surprise. His eyes strobing left and right. Taking it all in.

  Infected everywhere. Dozens of them and in the same state they have seen everywhere. Some naked. Some half-dressed in the clothes they were wearing when they were bit or infected. Some in uniforms too.

  ‘Good morning,’ an old woman calls out, crossing the road from right to left in front of them. A broken, half burnt wicker basket held by a torn strap in her hand. Her floral dress smeared with blood and shit. Her eyes red and bloodshot. She reaches the other side and pushes in through a doorway out of sight.

  ‘Good morning,’ a man this time. Naked from the waist down. A torn and bloodied ripped Royal Mail shirt hanging in tatters from his body. A red postal bag over one shoulder as he walks from door to door, pushing envelopes through letterboxes of open and closed doors. Stuffing them in without finesse. Some crumpling and missing to fall and land on the wet road. More infected walking up and down the street as though going about their normal daily lives.

  Reginald walks on, absorbed in the sight and not seeing Howie, Dave, Clarence and Maddox moving to cover his sides and rear.

  A door to the left opens. The old woman in the bloodied floral dress comes out carrying the same wicker basket and crosses in front of them. ‘Good morning,’ she says, her voice strangled and wrong.

  A milkman in a long white coat and an old-fashioned white hat on his head. Like something from a sixties movie and Howie figures this must have been the last village in the world to have a proper milkman. He’s tall too, rangy and with blood spattered over his white coat and in his hands, a large plastic tray filled with empty milk bottles rattles as he walks. He stops at doorways, dropping milk bottles that smash on the pavement before walking on to do the same again and behind him the infected crunch with bare feet over the broken glass, tearing flesh open and cutting deep through toes but without reaction or pain.

  ‘Good morning,’ the milkman passes level with Howie. His plastic tray now empty but his hand still reaching in to take a bottle that isn’t there as he bends over to drop it down. His path taking him towards Blowers and Danny. They tense and walk on, Blowers moving in front to stay between the infected and Danny. Cookey moving up from behind, ready to respond. ‘Good morning,’ the milkman says, trapped in his loop and passing by without incident as Nick and Tappy step round the postal worker on the other side and Charlie holds the centre of the road ahead. The clip-clop of Jess’s feet filling the air.

  ‘Boss?’ Nick calls out, staring through a plate glass window at a woman inside standing behind a man sitting in the barber’s chair
facing a mirror. A pair of scissors in her hand dripping blood from repeatedly stabbing the points into his scalp. Blood dripping down his neck and chest. Both of them smiling. Another infected sitting in a chair as though waiting to go next but his head already covered in cuts from the scissors.

  ‘Fucking village of the damned,’ Howie mutters.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  Voices calling out. Haggard, broken, strangled and wrong. An emulation of a society. Sickening and morbid.

  Then they reach the village centre and the tension ramps. The village green filled with a dozen or so children sitting on their backsides staring at a woman in a torn dressing gown.

  ‘A…B…C…’ she says the words, her right hand held out, bobbing up and down as she speaks.

  ‘A…B….C…’ the children intone the sound but flat and wrong. Everything wrong. Abhorrent and offensive. Old men and old women sitting in chairs outside a café bordering the green. The tables overturned from the storm. A car embedded through the café window. A corpse draped over the bonnet. The arms hanging down one side. White and bloated. Flies buzzing everywhere. Maggots writhing in injuries.

  ‘A…B…C,’ the woman in the dressing gown calls out.

  ‘A…B…C,’ the children repeat in perfect synchronicity.

  More infected walking here and there. Howie’s eyes growing hard. Fingers moving to triggers. Danny and Tappy looking at each across the street.

  A wail. Distinct and awful. A baby crying and every head snaps over to an infected woman pushing a baby carriage towards the green. Her nightgown filthy and blackened. Another wail. A baby inside the carriage, unseen but heard.

  ‘A…B…C,’ the woman teacher in the dressing gown says.

  ‘A…B…C,’ the children repeat.

  ‘Wait here,’ Howie moves out, striding towards the woman pushing the pram and the baby crying within.

  ‘Good morning,’ the woman says. Howie ignores her, reaching the pram to look down before pulling his head back and squeezing his eyes closed. Bite marks on tiny limbs. An image seared into his mind and the rage bubbling up from within on a surge of hate and violence. He turns away, tears falling from his eyes, shaking his head, remembering the little girl in the square crying out, picturing the moment this baby was bitten and now left to fester for weeks without water, without food, without pain. A trick played. A baby wailing but it’s not a baby. He draws his pistol, aims down and fires once. Everyone flinching at the sudden sharp crack of his pistol.