The Undead Day Nineteen

by Haywood, RR

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good,’ Dave releases Mo and moves back, ‘Again.’

  Mo attacks. Dave defends. Mo gets faster. Dave stops him every few seconds. Pointing out the benefit of slicing here. Stabbing there. Adding body weight to unbalance the opponent. Toe traps. Leg hooks. Trips, locks, holds and in so doing he gains an understanding of Mo’s unique sense of poise and balance and starts refining what Mo can do with his own body.

  ‘Hold,’ Dave says, holding Mo’s elbow to force the power of the stab away, ‘In this position you can draw and fire into me with the pistol. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Break away,’ Dave releases Mo, stepping back to clear the distance, ‘Unload your pistol and make safe.’

  Mo does as told. Removing the magazine and ejecting the round from the chamber.

  ‘Use your pistol when you can,’ Dave says.

  Mo attacks again. Lunging in with a clumsy stab but Dave can see the clumsiness is hiding a coming swipe and he parries, blocks and lets Mo keep coming. Letting the lad gain confidence and speed.

  Mo grunts and sweats, intently drawn into the training and not realising that Dave is teaching him at the same time as watching the whole of the ground and being aware of everything around him.

  The close quarters training becomes a blur. Mo’s speed defies what he should know at this stage and age but these are strange days. Dave does not question it. Dave accepts what is.

  Mo first uses the pistol as opportunities present themselves. A sudden opening and he whips it out dry firing with dull clicks. Then he starts thinking of creating those opportunities and Dave tracks the progress. Then Mo actually tries to create those opportunities. Stabbing while twisting to draw and fire into Dave’s midsection. He gets batted away, swatted, hit, slapped, flicked and driven on.

  The pace is relentless. Mo’s top clings to his frame but still he learns and fights. In the back of his mind is Jagger and every dirty trick he learnt on the estate. In the middle of his mind is Jagger and everything he has learnt with Howie and the others. In the front of his mind is Dave. Just Dave. This is special. This is unique. To be trained by Dave, even for one lesson, is something incredible and what respect Mo had for Dave at the start magnifies beyond comprehension.

  The hours pass. They only stop to drink water, or hydrate as Dave calls it. They drink in silence with Mo watching Dave like a hawk and Dave watching everything like a machine.

  Nick wakes first. The sound of his own fart making him jerk awake with surprise and he sits up wondering if anyone else heard it. Luckily it doesn’t smell but he can see the night through the windows is starting to lift.

  He stands up, pulling his trousers on then sits back down to tug his boots on his feet. Rifle in hand, bag over shoulder and he quietly moves across the floor towards the doors already digging his smokes from his pocket and trying to bite one from the packet.

  In the reception he stops dead. Freezing for a few long seconds. He goes to move forward then stops and backs towards the main room instead.

  ‘Wake up,’ he whispers, shaking Blowers gently on the shoulder, ‘Blowers…’

  ‘What’s up?’ Blowers comes awake in an instant. Rising to sitting with his hand already reaching for his weapon.

  ‘Dave’s teaching Mo, you gotta fucking see it.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Blowers asks.

  ‘Fuck yeah.

  ‘Cookey,’ Blowers leans over to thump the shape under the blanket on the mattress next to his.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Dave is training Mo.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Cookey asks, sitting up, ‘Where?’

  ‘Outside,’ Nick says, ‘fucking incredible.’

  Cookey wakes Blinky who wakes Charlie. They whisper as they dress with Nick almost hopping with impatience for fear of Mo and Dave stopping before the others can see what he saw. Their movements disturb Paula who sits up with the suspicious expression of a mother wondering why her children are getting up early. She starts getting dressed, leaning over to try and see through the doors to the reception.

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Who?’ Roy asks sleepily.

  ‘That lot, they’re outside.’

  ‘Probably smoking.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Paula says and tugs her trousers on. She ignores the boots and with rifle in hand she goes barefoot past the mattresses and into reception, stopping to stare at the back of Nick, Blowers, Cookey, Charlie and Blinky.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Paula,’ Cookey says, turning to face her, ‘Gotta see this,’ he waves a hand, beckoning her over.

  ‘See what? Where? Jesus Christ!’

  ‘I know, right,’ Cookey whispers.

  ‘Roy,’ Paula says, running back into the room, ‘You’ve got to see this.’

  ‘See what?’ He asks.

  ‘Dave training Mo.’

  ‘I’ll sleep if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I do mind. Get up and see it.’

  ‘Yes, Paula,’ Roy tuts and huffs, getting up as he glances over to see Paula waving at him to hurry up. He trots over, still huffing and puffing as she pushes and guides him to the main doors.

  ‘And?’ Roy asks, seeing Mo and Dave drinking water as they stare at each other.

  ‘Just wait,’ Nick whispers.

  ‘Again,’ Dave says, his voice carrying flat in the stillness of the early morning air.

  Mo puts his cup down, rolls his shoulders and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of one arm. He draws a spatula from his belt as Roy frowns with a sigh and goes to turn away to head back to bed. He stops as his mind catches up with what he just saw. Mo lunging at Dave but…but…he looks back outside seeing the blur of movement.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘Oh I see.’

  Mo lunges, his right hand holding the weapon and aimed for a throat stab but it’s blocked so he drops, twisting to slice across a leg that suddenly isn’t there so he stamps down to toe trap the other foot but it slides out from under his boot. He drops his shoulder, heaving slightly to force Dave over. Dave goes with it, turning as Mo slaps at Dave’s head who ducks and sends one back at Mo. Mo ducks and weaves to the right before snapping to the left to get behind Dave. Dave drops, rolling Mo across his hip. Mo takes the roll and lands two footed with instant balance and lets gravity pull him down to slide the point of the weapon down Dave’s leg but again Dave isn’t where he should be. How the fuck does he move so fast? Mo grunts, willing his body to move faster, to gain one point, just one point. That’s all this is now. An effort to at least land something on Dave. A hit, a strike, a kick, punch, slap, anything.

  Mo whips round, pulling the pistol as he charges into Dave. Dave goes back one step, two steps then forward as his right hand grips the top of the pistol guiding the aim away. Mo glides with the pull, letting Dave pull him round as he tries to stab into his stomach but he might as well be trying to stab a fish with a fucking oar. Jagger. Estate. Everything learnt. Dave. Blend it. Use it.

  Mo gets slapped. A stinging noise that makes everyone gathered in the doorway wince but Mo shows no reaction and simply lets go of the pistol and thumps down into Dave’s kneecap but again the fucking kneecap isn’t there. Instead the pistol is coming in towards his head so he ducks and grabs it. Thankfully Dave lets it go, letting Mo keep the momentum gained. Leg hooks are attempted and throws tried. Locks applied and blocks given to punches and strikes that lash back and forth.

  Dave lets Mo lock him up and goes with the pain so Mo learns if something will work. Only then does he throw the hold by a simple twist and spin.

  ‘Head,’ Dave says, seeing Mo has a chance to strike him. Mo goes for it, learning the lessons. Listening and learning.

  ‘Good. Break.’

  Mo releases and steps away. His chest heaving and the sweat pouring from his face.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Nick shakes his head. The whole of the attack lasted just seconds. That’s all it was. So many movements in a few seconds and ev
en he couldn’t keep track of them.

  ‘Mo Mo Dave Two,’ Cookey mutters under his breath.

  ‘Yeah,’ Blowers nods, mesmerised.

  ‘I’m speechless,’ Paula says as the rest all turn to look at her, ‘And that doesn’t need a quip back, Cookey.’

  ‘We will stop now,’ Dave says.

  ‘No,’ Mo says, ‘More,’ his voice a low growl and a refusal to walk away until he’s scored at least one point.

  ‘No. Enough,’ Dave says with a nod at the doors. Mo turns, sees the others and turns back to face Dave. ‘Wash. Hydrate. Eat.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mo says, breathing out steadily.

  ‘Yes not yeah.’

  ‘Yes, Dave,’ Mo says as Dave steps in to within an inch of his face.

  ‘We protect Mr Howie,’ Dave says, dropping his voice so only Mo can hear, ‘at all times.’

  ‘Yes, Dave,’ Mo whispers back.

  Dave walks to his kit, picks it up and walks calmly to the doors. Not a bead of sweat on his head. His breathing steady and controlled. ‘Good morning,’ he walks past, leaving them speechless and Mo dripping sweat on the ground outside.

  Fourteen

  You are not pack.

  Pack do not betray.

  Traitor.

  I snap awake with Lani’s snarling words ringing in my mind from a dream of twisted scenes of death and broken bones and a little girl screaming for her mummy.

  Eyes wide. Heart hammering and the scent of Marcy holds in my nose as the dog walks to the foot of my bed whimpering softly. She lowers down. Flat to the ground in supplication. I look up and round to see Dave standing in the door holding his rifle in one hand and his bag over his shoulder. His face a mask devoid of expression but his eyes remain fixed on me for a long second until he turns to walk away.

  Traitor.

  I get up and lurch to the kitchen. Pushing through the double doors into a room that smells richly of wood smoke from a fire being rekindled by the man who fed us yesterday. He looks up as I stride past, heading to the sink so I can twist the tap and let the cold water thunder into the stainless steel bowl.

  ‘You okay?’

  I ignore him and thrust my burning mind under the flow and let the iciness sluice over my neck and scalp. Gasping from the sensation but I stay put, trying to rid my head of her voice snarling over and over. She said something else too. Something in the dream but it’s gone. The words retreating like the volume is being turned down as my own thoughts take over.

  I grip the side of the sink. My knuckles white. My legs trembling and my heart thundering in beat to the water pouring in the bowl.

  ‘Hey,’ the man says, his voice deep and soothing, ‘Take it easy.’

  I nod. Unable to speak. Trying to form words that don’t come. A hand on my shoulder. The gentle touch of another human being expressing concern. I could kill him. I could rip his throat out with my teeth and let his blood spray over the walls. That’s what I am now. A killer. I kill. I’ve killed. That’s what all of us are now. We play. We joke. We smile and we slaughter.

  ‘It’s okay,’ the man says. He knows. He knows what we’ve done. He knows the cost we pay and the toll for each life we take. I gasp again. Not from the cold water but from the guilt and pain inside. ‘It’s okay,’ he says again with his hand applying the slightest of pressure on my shoulder.

  ‘It’s not,’ I spit the words out, my voice cracking and hoarse as the water pouring down my face washes the tears away. Tears that spill and run so much that I clench my jaw trying to swallow the pain away. I sink lower, reaching out to cling onto the taps with my eyes clamped tight.

  ‘Mr Howie, you in here?’

  ‘Mr Howie will be out in a minute,’ the man replies, his voice carrying a calm authority with the faintest hint of an Irish accent. ‘You’re alone now. Take your time.’ His hand pats once and lifts away but I can sense his bulk leaning against the sink blocking the view of anyone coming through the door.

  I start to hyperventilate. Like I can’t get air into my chest. Gasping for oxygen that won’t come. Panic rises in me. The tears start to fall again. My stomach tightening into a ball. My muscles tense. The veins in my arms pushing through the skin and my teeth bared as the water rushes over my face.

  ‘Breathe,’ his voice close to my ear. A hand on the back of my neck easing me slightly back from the flow of water, ‘Breathe, Howie. In through the nose, deep and slow…breathe…it’s okay. Everything is okay…breathe…It doesn’t feel like it now, son,’ he says quietly, deeply, speaking only to me with his hand on the back of my neck as the water runs down my head, ‘But in the darkest days there will be light. The world is still here and all the things in it shall live the lives they are meant to live.’

  I go to move. To pull back and look at him but his hand holds me firm without threat or danger.

  ‘We heard of you before you came. Mr Howie and Dave. The living army. That’s what they call you. Your names are spoken from one survivor to the next and in those darkest of days there will be light…breathe…breathe now, Howie.’

  I breathe. I let the air back into my lungs and feel his hand holding me firm and suddenly I don’t know if he is holding me up or pushing me down.

  When he speaks his voice is nearer, closer to my ear, ‘you will be absolved, son. You are absolved.’

  ‘There is no fucking God,’ I growl.

  ‘You know this?’ He asks with something close to humour in his voice, ‘You know more than any man if you know this. You may bring the light but even you do not know this.’

  I push up expecting to force his hand but it’s as though he lifts me from the water and stares smiling while the water drips down my face.

  ‘That’s it. Stand straight now. Stand up and be a man,’ he smiles at me with eyes blue eyes full of sadness and love in a craggy face underneath a head of hair streaked with grey, ‘You’ve got work to do,’ he adds, his eyes twinkling as they hold mine unblinking and unafraid.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Kyle.’

  ‘No…I mean…’

  ‘There,’ he says knowingly, ‘Mr Howie is back. Fancy a coffee?’

  ‘Yeah, but…’ I close my eyes for a second and when I look he’s already moved away. Going back to the fire to add more slivers of broken wood.

  ‘Your team will be wanting a big meal I expect, plus we have many more mouths to feed this morning. Never mind, we have plenty of food here and I’m sure I can knock something together.’

  ‘I…’ I go to stop him, to demand he speaks to me but the anger is gone and the pain inside is abating faster than I can recall it. He looks up with another smile and stands slowly with his hands on his knees.

  ‘You feel better now. Calmer.’

  I nod and watch him as he moves to slide the wire rack over the crackling fire and a big pot of water to heat.

  ‘Good. That’s good,’ he mutters.

  ‘Mr Howie?’ Dave pushes into the kitchen as devoid of expression as ever but I can tell he’s in that frame of mind where he won’t stop until he’s checked I’m still alive and breathing. The hand on the hilt of his knife in his belt also speaks volumes.

  ‘I’m fine, mate.’

  ‘Coffee, Dave?’ Kyle asks. Moving over to the side he starts sorting mugs and prizes the lid from a catering size tub of instant coffee granules.

  Dave stops. His eyes fixed on Kyle, tracking his movements. He looks back to me, ‘You okay, Mr Howie?’

  ‘Fine, mate. Just needed to rinse off.’ I feel better. Much better and suddenly I want everyone to come in here and stick their head under the tap while this weird old guy says nice things to them. I look at Dave, wondering what he’d do if I asked him to put his head under the tap and get a vision of Kyle being stabbed in the throat for touching Dave’s neck.

  ‘Howie, you okay?’ Marcy comes through the doors with her hair sticking up in every direction and holding her trousers up from getting dressed in a rush.

  ‘Fine, just needed to ri
nse off,’ I say again.

  ‘Rinse off?’ She asks, cocking her head to one side and looking at me strangely.

  ‘Yeah, er…it’s nice…you should try it’

  ‘You want me to rinse off?’

  ‘Um…that’s Kyle,’ I say dumbly, pointing at the man who turns and smiles politely at Marcy.

  ‘Hello, Kyle,’ Marcy says without taking her eyes from me.

  ‘Morning,’ he says with brisk politeness.

  ‘Mr Howie needed some cold water to revive his sleepy head,’ Kyle says, spooning coffee granules into mugs.

  ‘I see,’ Marcy says, not seeing at all.

  ‘Absolved.’

  ‘What?’ She asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, realising I said the word out loud.

  ‘Ab what?’

  ‘Abs.’

  ‘Abs?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Howie, are you okay?’ She asks again, moving closer towards me.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your abs? Do they hurt?’

  A snort of a chuckle from Kyle who lifts his eyebrows and apologises under his breath.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Marcy asks, glancing from Kyle to me, ‘Charlie said he had his hand on you.’

  ‘Dave, stand down,’ I snap as Dave cocks his head over and takes a step towards Kyle.

  ‘Who are you?’ Marcy demands, glaring at the man arranging the mugs in a long line. He looks up at her, smiles and picks up a tin opener, ‘Kyle, nice to meet you, Marcy.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’ She asks, turning fully towards him.

  ‘Marcy, take it easy,’ I say.

  ‘Well now,’ Kyle says, clamping the tin opener on the edge of a catering size can of tuna, ‘I think we all know your names. For a start you all called each other by name yesterday,’ he starts winding the handle, grunting softly with the effort.

  ‘Why were you touching Howie? Why was he touching you?’ She asks, glancing back with a very serious expression.

  ‘Don’t be so rude,’ I interject.

  ‘I will be rude. I want to know why this man was touching you? Did he threaten you?’