The Undead Day Fifteen

by RR Haywood

  Several times the groups are too large to risk going through. His own safety is guaranteed and he knows not one of them would land a hand on him, let alone a filthy diseased mouth. But it would need two hands and one of his hands is currently occupied holding a strange child, so he skirts round and sneaks through the shadows, all the time wondering why the hell he picked the kid up in the first place.

  The city centre may be the geographical heart of the city, but as time expanded and the populations grew, so boundaries shifted and the urban network sprawled out to create suburbs, boroughs and divisions within divisions, each with its own unique micro-centre.

  Gregori walks away from one centre, unknowingly towards another. The residents of the houses here didn’t wish to journey into the city proper for their goods and services, and where there is demand there is supply. So another centre sprung up. Shops, businesses, pubs and nightlife. More affluent than the grimy city centre and so the dwellers here possessed an air of superiority. Rather than peeling, wooden framed, sash windows these are UPVC. Flower pots, flower beds and water features grace the front gardens instead of old sofas and broken washing machines. The cars are washed on Sundays by menfolk who wear checked trousers when they play golf and come back to eat a roast dinner before dozing off in front of the sofa while their ever loving spouses chat amiably on the phone.

  They still die and bleed the same as the rest. They scream and whimper, if anything they scream and whimper louder for their right to life is greater than anyone else. They have jobs. They pay mortgages and bills, they support the losers on the dole so surely they deserve to live?

  But the infection doesn't give a fuck about these middle class snobs. It doesn't care that they have two weeks in Corfu every year at a five star all inclusive resort. It doesn't give a shit what salary they’re on or how much equity they have.

  All men are created equally or all men are equally created? The infection shows no inequality, it lacks discrimination or prejudice. It wants hosts, it needs hosts. Hosts will be taken and they can fight back or lie screaming in the road while shitting their Marks and Spencer underwear. They still die, they still become death and are reborn in the base state of being.

  So those men wield their golf clubs and cricket bats but they get torn apart the same as the rest and their blood drips as quickly from their BMW’s as a twenty year old Peugeots.

  Except for one man who has the foresight to plan the route ahead. He assesses everything in sight, he analyses each possible threat, risk, danger and he calculates his own path. The steps he takes right now were thought about long seconds ago but despite all that planning, he still finds himself coming to the end of the residential street arriving slap bang in the micro-centre of wherever he is. Crowds. Dense crowds. Hordes of them chasing individuals, couples and small groups. Young men and women, dressed to impress run jerkily after their prey. Nightclub bouncers follow them, taxi drivers, the staff from the restaurants and take-aways, the local police who just moments ago were moaning about their pensions and lack of overtime.

  Gregori starts to back up. Noise behind and he turns to see another horde charging up the street behind him. He side steps, smooth and fluid as water into a deep doorway and hopes the horde will bundle past to join their new brethren in the town centre ahead of him.

  He doesn't panic or feel fear, so therefore his nerves do no betray him. He stands calm and silent as he waits to slip back down the road he came from and find another way out. The boy stirs uneasily in his sleep. The beans he had for dinner have navigated his gut. The turmoil and now the bouncing around all play a part so when the fart comes, it brings some mild relief to the boy’s stomach as it trumpets out of his arse into the relative quiet of the immediate area.

  The noise attracts one lone undead staggering hungrily towards the main crowd. She stops and turns, locking eyes on those of the deadly killer taking a tighter grip of the knife in his hand. She starts forward but in doing so, she attracts the attention of some that are close to her. They turn, those around them turn, more turn, they all turn and Gregori faces out to a sea of hungry animalistic faces all staring at the meaty package he holds in his arms.

  Oh so gently, he slowly lowers the boy to the ground, easing him down onto his side then shuffling the murmuring lad deep into the corner of the doorway. Standing back up, both knives are now held ready while he positions himself between the almighty incoming mass and the unknown strange child sleeping behind him.

  One leg slides forward. One leg slides back. One arm comes up in front with the knife held ready, the other arm extends out behind him. He tracks multiple targets and at this point he works to pinpoint the order of attack.

  The girl with her nose bitten off will be first, a slice to the throat and then he can spin and take down the two behind her in one movement. Move left for that side is closer, take the three men down with two throat cuts and one skull stab, then slide back to position and take on those coming from the right, a group of five, one of them big and strong with a heavy body weight. Three can be throat cut, they will drop just there and the big one will trip over them to be stabbed as he falls. The last one will be cut deep and sent spinning to the left to impede the flow on that side.

  The action begins. Ten seconds later and the first eleven bodies he calculated are down exactly as he plotted, and by the time the last one spins off, he has already worked out the next closest five.

  And so it goes. A master at work who appears effortless, like he just moves from space to space killing as he goes with the grace of a ballet dancer and the strength of a scaffolder. Everything is forward planned. No move is taken without being checked against the movement of that target, those around him and where Gregori will end up in time and space at the conclusion of the kill.

  The boy sleeps, talking in low nonsensical tones and his mind deals with the horrors he witnessed as genocide takes place just metres away.

  The one single thought that enters Gregori’s head that is not about the task at hand, is that he never really liked the Turkish very much but they do keep very sharp knives.

  Thirteen

  ‘Dunno mate, cows maybe?’ Nick comments.

  ‘What’s that?’ I call back.

  Jagger shouts out, ‘we dunno, Mr Howie.’ It still makes me feel a bit weird hearing him call me that, ‘but like…some kind of fucking…well summit big…’

  ‘We were messing with the range,’ Nick continues, ‘up ahead and to the right…like a heat source like that fucker Meredith got…but lots of them…’

  ‘You think it might be cows?’ I ask them both.

  ‘Got to be innit?’ Jagger says, ‘like…there’s spaces between ‘em so like…lots of ‘em but all not one thing…you get me?’

  ‘Yes mate, perfectly…are they on the road?’

  ‘Hang on, is that some?’ Nick and Jagger lapse into quiet mutterings, ‘yeah, we think so…wait till we get closer but…maybe slow down?’

  ‘Righto mate,’ I ease my foot up, going from the running pace back to a steady jogging speed, ‘but remember we’ve punched through things before, we don’t want to give them time to block the road up.’

  ‘Okay,’ Nick replies. To his credit, Cookey refrains from his usual comments as everyone starts switching on, shifting position as though getting ready for something to happen.

  ‘Not far off,’ Nick calls out, ‘five hundred metres…and…hang on…yeah there’s movement now, see that Jagger?’

  ‘I see it bruv, yeah like…like cows or summit…but…’

  ‘But what?’ Nick asks.

  ‘Ain’t no cows bruv,’ Jagger says confidently, ‘see how many is there? They ain’t no cows…not that many…’

  ‘Let me see,’ Roy moves up to peer at the screen, ‘what am I looking at?’

  ‘These here,’ Nick says, ‘these splodges are just like the one that Meredith got.’

  ‘Yep,’ Roy nods, ‘not cows, Mr Howie, way too many…no farmer in England will have a herd that size a
nd after what, two weeks of no milking? Mind you, they might not be dairy cows so…but no, too many for cows…sheep have bigger herds.’

  ‘Sheep?’ I call back.

  ‘Might be,’ Roy replies, ‘but that’s still one hell of a herd and they’re packed very close together.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the fog make them do that?’

  ‘Possibly, Mr Howie…’

  ‘Not cows or sheep,’ Dave’s voice is confident, ‘look at Meredith.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Blowers exclaims.

  ‘What?’ I twist round to see the dog staring fixed towards the front.

  ‘They’re running…’ Nick yells, ‘right towards us…shit look at that,’ he holds the screen up for the others to see.

  ‘Oh my god,’ Paula’s voice is the clearest out of the mutterings of shock, ‘they’re like ants.’

  ‘That bad?’ I ask, ‘Dave, numbers?’

  ‘Hundreds, Mr Howie…is that the road?’

  ‘Yeah this line here,’ Jagger replies.

  ‘Heading onto the road ahead of us…blocking behaviour,’ Dave relays.

  ‘FUCK,’ A bang from the front and an undead launches onto the bonnet, scrabbling to press his face against the windscreen, slamming his forehead into the toughened glass as Meredith surges to the front trying to bite her way through to him.

  ‘Get her back,’ Clarence yells.

  ‘Dark spots are running towards us,’ Nick calls out.

  ‘Slow down,’ Clarence stares through the glass at the thing trying to headbutt its way through the windshield. He pushes his door open, stands on the ledge and reaches over.

  ‘Oi ugly,’ he yells. The thing snaps his head to fix on Clarence and immediately lunges towards him. ‘Got ya,’ Clarence grips it round the neck one handed, twisting from the waist and he flings it aside.

  ‘Clarence!’ Nick is too late shouting the warning as his screen comes alive with darker spots running in from the sides. Bodies swarm the open door, wrenching Clarence from the ledge and out of sight. There’s a hard impact from my side as faces smash into my window and door, hands, fists and heads banging hard to get the door open. They swarm the bonnet and onto the roof, dinks and bangs all down the length.

  ‘Fuck it,’ I slam the brakes on but the low speed doesn't shift those from the bonnet. ‘Dave, after Clarence…the rest form up at the rear in a circle and fight out, let the dog go first to clear space.’

  ‘On it,’ Blowers is up, kicking the back doors open to let a raging Meredith get out. Dave is over the front seats and out the open passenger door, plunging into the mist as he fights to find Clarence. A roar reverberates around us and a female undead flies over the bonnet of the Saxon, something only Clarence heading into berserker mode could do.

  I open my door, slam it shut and slam my shoulder against it to open it again, forcing them back. Too many and the clever fuckers grip my door to wrench it open. I tumble out, axe in hand to land heavily amongst them. Another clever fucker grabs the shaft of my weapon and tries lifting it away. I cling on tight and let the bugger help me to my feet before I slam my forehead into his nose. A second later I’m staggering around in a tight circle clutching my forehead from the explosion of pain and swearing like a trooper. The one I head-butted didn’t flinch, despite his nose busting from the impact and pumping blood down into his mouth.

  Bodies slam me against the closed door of the Saxon, hot breath hissing into my face. My axe is pinned too but I keep hold of it, feeling as they try and jerk it free. Hands grip me hard, bodies pushing into me and suddenly I’m helpless, unable to push out or fight back. The memory of being pinned against the wall in the car park tunnel floods into my mind and brings with it the memory of the still beating heart that was thrust into my mouth. I start to wriggle, harder and harder until I’m thrashing like crazy and screaming with it. They push harder with iron grips and shoulders that drive against me. No mouths biting me, no teeth trying to shred my skin.

  ‘No,’ I growl the word out as I feel my fingers wrapped tight round the axe shaft being prised open. Tightening my grip, I clench for all I’m worth but whoever is doing it is stronger than I am and the axe is removed gently but firmly from my hand.

  Rage explodes out from every pore and I fight like a man possessed, thrashing my own body against them and the hard side of the vehicle. The grip on my right arm slips and I pull it free, swinging it round to drive a hard punch into the side of head pushing against my chest. I hit again and again, building power with each one. The thing starts to sink down from the blows as more hands scrabble to grasp my free right arm. I let my legs buckle and start sliding down the side of the Saxon. They growl louder and push harder trying to keep me upright but slowly we sink. My right arm wraps over the back of the head I was punching, push my fingers into his eye socket and pop the ball out. Gripping the side of the bone, I pull him away from me but we all sink down to the ground in a heap of arms, legs and hot breath gasping from the exertion.

  I get my hand under a chin and feel for the Adams apple, driving my fingers into the sides as I compress and damage all the tiny bones and tendons. Still they drive down on top of me, swarming and suffocating but not actually attacking or biting me. . The sounds of fighting surrounds me, the lads shouting at each other and the constant dull thump as bodies hit the floor.

  Thank god for Dave and his foresight. Drawing my new diver’s knife I get ready as they start in after me, but the space is too compressed to do anything. I head towards the back of the Saxon, drawing them with me and almost reach the back end when several hands grip my feet and ankles and drag me back cursing and spitting. Kicking out, I know I get some hard hits but it has little effect as they pull me hand over hand towards them.

  ‘MR HOWIE’ Dave roars, calling my name in panic at not being able to find me.

  ‘UNDER HERE,’ I shout back between busting noses and jawbones.

  ‘ARE YOU OKAY?’

  Not really, I think. A couple of minutes ago we were driving on a foggy road and now I’m on my belly under an old army vehicle that stinks of oil and blood with zombies grabbing at my feet.

  ‘FINE MATE, AND YOU?’

  ‘FINE, CLARENCE IS FINE.’

  ‘THAT’S GOOD THEN.’

  ‘EVERYONE IS FINE.’

  ‘GREAT.’

  ‘DO YOU NEED HELP?’

  ‘ME? NAH I’M FINE MATE.’

  ‘MEREDITH GOT ANOTHER ARM…I THINK SHE’S COLLECTING THEM…’

  ‘OH RIGHT…’

  Bloody hell, you can hardly get a word out of him most of the time and now he wants to make idle chit chat.

  ‘Get orf my pissing leg,’ I look back to see them clawing and dragging at me, faces twisted with focus and concentration, ‘why aren’t you biting me?’ They don’t answer but keep pulling me back, so I let them. Instead of fighting against it, I let them do the hard work and get ready to use my knife. ‘You’re not going to win…’ I tell them confidently, ‘not now, not today and not ever…so fuck off and go live in a zombie commune…’

  ‘Howie? Who are you talking to?’ Lani shouts from somewhere nearby.

  ‘THEM…seriously …we’ve had some good times, some bad times but why not call it a day eh? You go your way, we’ll go ours…we can phone and email, maybe visit once a year for a scrap or something? No? Shit, this hatred you have will just ruin your lives. All that negative energy, you could be happy making…’

  ‘Immune,’ the one word hissed amongst the ragged breaths brings me to a sudden silence. I’m not even sure which one said it. A few seconds have passed and now I’m even doubtful I heard it.

  ‘What? Say it again…’ I reach up with my free hand and grab something hard on the Saxon, gripping tight to prevent them dragging me any closer. They stop pulling me and go still. All of us staring at each other, me at them, them at me. ‘You spoke, say it again…’

  ‘Immune.’

  The woman, the dark haired woman said it. Staring at me with a fixed, almost intelligent look in her
eyes. I focus on her, assuming the thing inside her is behind the controls.

  ‘I am immune.’

  ‘Immune.’ The word is harsh, like someone who has lost their voice, all rough and hoarse.

  ‘We’ve established that, yeah I’m immune…so fuck off and leave us alone…’

  Her head jerks while her mouth opens and snaps shut, her eyes widen then narrow like the thing inside her is trying to control the finesse of holding her steady.

  ‘One…’

  ‘One what?’

  ‘…One…one r….one rrrr….’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Race…One race…’

  The energy changes. There’s a connection between us, an understanding of communication and I get a plunging feeling that this infection is what Dave said it is, a conscious entity capable of deep intelligence. Then I realise that it does not have intelligence, it simply uses what it has control over, it uses the intelligence of the host bodies and it’s telling me only one race can be here.

  ‘I agree,’ I say the words quietly, our eyes locked while my hand still grips the underside of the Saxon, ‘but our race…not yours…’

  ‘One race…’ A faster reply, the voice more sure of itself.

  ‘We were here first,’ which perhaps isn’t the best answer considering what happened to the dinosaurs, and the Dodo bird, and probably loads of other species that were about before mankind. The woolly mammoth, no…wasn’t that one of the dinosaurs?

  ‘WAS THE WOOLLY MAMMOTH A DINOSAUR?’

  ‘What!?’ A chorus of replies.