by RR Haywood
He turns slowly. His red eyes searching for more to kill. He lumbers towards the door, feet snagging on the bodies. Tripping and falling but getting back to his feet to stagger out into the corridor. His shoulder hits the edge of the door frame that makes him spin round to drop in a crumpled heap.
The chance is here. The doorway is clear. She goes quickly dodging the bodies and the broken furniture. Paco groans, trying to rise. He gets to all fours then lifts up on his knees. She pauses, faltering, wanting to get past him but not wanting to get close. He shuffles round to look down the corridor, swaying and hurt. Bleeding and broken. His arms hanging limp and his head lolling from the pain being sent into every pore of his body.
She runs for it. Darting out and yelping when his head jerks round to watch her. She backs against the wall in the corridor. Staring at his red eyes, at his bleeding face, at the wounds on his neck. He makes sound in his throat. A low keening noise. The noise of an animal that did its best but now it hurts. It hurts lots. He jolts with a spasm. She flinches and tries to push back into the wall. She could get past him. Just run for it. Run and get out before more come.
He tries to rise but his legs give out and he sinks down. Still he levers himself up, pushing his upper body with his arms that now shake and tremble. He is hive mind. He is not hive mind. The infection hurts him. It gives pain in his body that sears and makes the tears fall from his eyes.
She slides along the wall. Eyes fixed on him. Blood everywhere. She feels exposed, vulnerable. She is half naked, without shoes and in pain. She gets clear and runs down the corridor. Free and ready to flee. She pays no thought to her jeans or knickers and thinks no thoughts to her bag or the shotgun. Just the need to be away from here. Just run and keep running.
She reaches the door at the end and stops at the sound coming from behind her. She turns to see him weak and broken trying to get up. She turns away and goes to move but stops and fights the urge to look back. He keens from the throat. In pain. Fuck him. He’s one of them. He saved her. He chased her. He killed the others. He’s infected.
Don’t get involved. Hiding is your thing. What others do is down to them. Stay away, Stay hidden. Go. Run and don’t look back.
Hide.
She goes through the doors and down the stairs and she doesn’t look back.
Nine
Hide in plain sight. A random idea that pops in her mind as she runs down the stairs, through the door and down the red carpet of the cinema foyer. She reaches the brass handled doors and stops at the mound of broken bodies piled on the pavement from being thrown through the window.
She goes straight over. Weaving through the blood and gore to the first open door on the opposite side and plunging into near pitch blackness. She hunkers down, squatting to listen while hoping to hell the smell of the dead bodies in the street will cover her own scent trail.
Her eyes adjust to the gloom and she spots the letterboxes fixed to the wall just inside the broken front door. An old wooden staircase leads up that she takes quickly. Not hesitating or slowing to listen or watch. Find somewhere to hide. Stay quiet and wait for the sun to come up.
She goes up again on legs still burning. Her bare feet creaking the boards gently under her weight. The first landing leads to two flats. One on either side with both doors hanging open. She goes up to the next floor. Another two flats, one with the door ripped from the hinges the other only slightly ajar. She goes up to the top floor and rushes across the landing to the door on the left hanging open and gets through to close the door behind her. The lock is broken but it has deadbolts that she rams home and a feeble security chain that she fastens in place.
In the midst of still being gripped by panic she smells the stale musty air and the dust that’s been settling for twelve days. That single thing takes the immediate edge off the wild anxiety gripping her stomach. She walks down the corridor. Kitchen on the right. Bedroom on the left. Bathroom on the right. Living room on the left. A four room flat, basic yet still expensive for the town centre location. She checks each room in turn. Peering in before venturing across each threshold. The double bed is made. The living room looks clean and tidy save for the single half full wine glass and the bag of M&M’s on the coffee table in the centre. A single electric toothbrush in the bathroom and she instantly gains the impression of a single woman living alone. A fragrance of shampoo and perfume hangs delicate in the air. With her mind still frantic she gains a mental image of a woman showering and getting ready for a night in. Pouring herself a glass of wine and sitting down to eat munchies while seeing the world fall apart on the television. She could have been one of the infected that chased her tonight. She could be lying dead on the pavement outside having been thrown from a window by another infected.
Focus. She bites her bottom lip, thinking of what to do. There must be something she should be doing. The adrenalin still courses, urging her to be doing something, doing anything. She goes back into the lounge and over to the big sash window. The curtains are open and she guesses you don’t need nets this high up. She goes carefully, coming in from the side and using the hanging drapes to shield her body as she looks out. The cinema is directly opposite. The broken window of the office clearly visible. She shifts and looks down to the bodies on the pavement then to the sides and finally to the doors of the cinema. Nothing to be seen. She shifts again, gently creaking a floor board under foot that makes her realise how quiet it is. Another idea forms and she gently grips the wooden frame of the sash window and starts to apply pressure, easing it up. It goes smoothly with only the faintest rubbing noise of wood brushing wood.
After listening intently for long minutes she finally backs away and makes her way into the kitchen. Every move is done slowly. A cupboard door opened. A mug found. The kitchen tap twisted slowly. A bowl used to deaden the noise of the water pouring into the stainless steel bowl of the sink. She lets it run while wondering if it’s safe to drink. The water in the church was okay and it looks clear enough. She fills the mug, sniffing and poking her tongue in as though that will tell her anything.
After the need for air, water is the next essential thing needed by a living form. Hunger can be withstood for long periods but thirst will drive a person mad. It’s only been a few hours since she took fluids in but those few hours have been frantic and the urge to drink overcomes the risk of the water being contaminated.
She drinks. She drinks deep and long. One mug of water then another. Another after that and she feels the cool liquid cascading down her parched throat to slosh in her empty stomach. The effect is instant. An immediate easing of pressure as her body absorbs the vital fluids. The fourth mug is the one that gives her the sense of being full and she lowers the mug with a long sigh followed by a deep belch that startles even her.
Heather stares into nothing feeling almost drunk from taking so much water down in one go. Her whole body is exhausted and with the intake of water so the cramps come back harder making her move away to root through drawers and find the box of Nurofen that every woman keeps ready at hand. She swallows two, drinks water then shrugs and downs another two. Then she panics at the prospect of an overdose and worries about the damage of four pills on an empty stomach. She finds a multipack of crisps and eats the lot. She finds chocolate and eats it. She opens a tin of ravioli and eats it cold. Hunger abates. Pain eases so she hunts for tampons or sanitary towels in the consummate belief that every woman keeps a box handy. Every drawer is checked. Every cupboard but none are found, instead she finds an information pack on the implant that stops periods. The fight drains out of her. She looks for knickers and finds plenty but at least six sizes too big that won’t stay up. This is the day of sod’s law after all.
Exhaustion hits with a fatigue that makes her legs feel like they’re made of concrete. She shuffles into the lounge, grabs the cushions from the sofa and sits down next to the open window to stare into the gloom and deathly silence. Her mind tries to process everything that’s happened but it’s only minutes befor
e the thoughts become jumbled and out of synch. Her head dips, her eyes closing to bat open with a start until she finally falls asleep with a last thought of wondering why Paco Maguire is on his period.
Ten
She wakes slowly at first. Grumbling softly and grinding her teeth. Something she has always done when she is worried. Her eyes start to open, fluttering gently as the first rays of light seep through to burn her retinas. She winces, closes her eyes and starts to doze again but that voice is there. The one that made her run last night and keep running. The one that told her to take off her jeans and knickers and throw them then hide somewhere else. That voice brings her awake and she does so instantly. Snapping with eyes wide and the sudden jarring sensation of not knowing where she is. Panic grips. The room is unfamiliar. Where is she? Who else is here?
It comes back in one long stream of memories. The infected people. The running and that actor man killing the other things. She doesn’t recognise the room because it was near on pitch dark when she got in here. Now it’s not dark. It’s daylight. Pure gorgeous wonderful light filled daylight.
She scoots to roll onto all fours and starts to rise to peer over the edge of the window. She can’t hear anything so that’s good and she knows the street will be empty, apart from the dead bodies that is. Otherwise it will be empty. It will be empty. It has to be empty.
It’s not empty. She drops, screws her eyes closed from the flare of pain at staring out into the bright light so soon after waking up and squeezes the windowsill tight while swallowing the surge of anger. When she looks again he’s still there. The bloody idiot is there. Paco Maguire in the middle of the road standing dumb and stupid.
Something snaps. The fear from the night before. The heat of the night and waking up all sweaty with a sore tummy and kitchen roll poking out between her legs. Anger rises. A flare of temper. A stupid dangerous thing given the circumstances but she stands, slams the window open fully and leans out.
‘FUCK OFF,’ she screams at Paco Maguire. ‘GO ON…JUST…JUST FUCK OFF…’
He starts to turn. His arms hanging limp at his sides. How the hell he is back on his feet after what happened to him is not a thought that enters her head. Nor the inherent danger of screaming at an infected man that is strong enough to throw an obese person through a window and snap bones like they’re dry twigs.
Instead she grabs a tartan scatter cushion and launches it with a grunt at his face now staring up. It hits and bounces off. She sends a second one down that bounces harmlessly off his head. The third hits his shoulder. The fourth misses which just makes her temper even more foul.
‘Just…just bloody wait,’ she tells him with a pointing finger and runs back into the room to grab more tartan scatter cushions that get carried over and thrown down.
Paco takes the missiles without complaint. Soft whumps that bounce off his head and shoulders to land softly on the road. She aims well, tongue poking out between her teeth while she unleashes the barrage of soft furnishings. The cushions are depleted so she goes for the heavier sofa seats. Lugging them to the window and using a two handed launching method to send them sailing down with the added bonus of gravity speeding the acceleration until they hit and actually make him take a step back.
She takes that victory in an explosion of temper and a black mood emboldened by the daylight and the fact he hasn’t tried to come up and eat her. She throws the other two seat cushions. Missing with both of them with an act that seems to light the touch-paper to the real inner demon that wants to come out.
She grabs a plant pot. A small ceramic thing with a spiky cactus poking out of the dried soil. The cactus was quite happy on the windowsill. It didn’t need much water and the weather has been lovely. Sitting all day in the sun and it was really quite content so to be sent flying down to bounce off the head of a big man was not on its list of things to be done.
‘Oh shit…sorry,’ she winces and stops at the sight of the man staggering back from the ceramic pot shattering on his skull. Blood pours down his face and he looks up with an expression of such abject pity that it ends her temper instantly. ‘You okay?’ She asks almost politely. Paco doesn’t answer. He just stares up at the woman. His eyes red and bloodshot and his face now covered in small rivers of blood leaking from the cut on his scalp.
‘FUCK OFF,’ she shouts again her temper half flaring then dying as instantly as it came. She festers and seethes then worries and feels bad. ‘I’m not coming out,’ she tells Paco, nodding emphatically. ‘And…and you can’t come up…’ she adds quickly. ‘Gun! I’ve got a gun,’ she ducks in, grabs the remote control for the television and waves it about quickly. ‘See…my gun…’ she tucks it behind her back and waits, staring down. He waits, staring up.
‘Go away,’ she says after a minute of silence.
Paco doesn’t go away. He stays staring up. His face covered in blood but the scalp wound is already clotting. His arms limp. His whole manner that of a dejected child or someone who doesn’t know what to do.
‘You’re Paco Maguire,’ she says. ‘So go away.’ That’ll do it. Telling him she knows who he is. That will make him go. ‘So…so I’ve got help coming and…and they’ve got guns. I mean more guns because I’ve got my gun and…so go away before they get here otherwise they’ll shoot you…’
Paco doesn’t go away.
‘Yes hello?’ She says quickly with a new idea forming as she puts the remote control to the side of her head. ‘Yes I’m in the top flat in er…in this town? Opposite the cinema! Yes. Yes I am here now. There is one outside. Paco Maguire. Yes the movie actor. Yes I know that’s very strange but he’s right there. He’s infected too. Like totally infected and you should shoot him when you get here. In the head. Shoot him in the head with your guns…’
She watches him while chatting away on the remote control. He doesn’t show any reaction but stares up. Forlorn and stationary.
‘…So okay then. Er…see you soon…about five minutes? Yep…bye then!’
She puts the remote control phone down and looks at Paco. ‘Five minutes. Yeah,’ she waggles the remote control phone gun at him then realises she’s waggling the remote control phone gun and pulls it behind her back. ‘They’re coming,’ she adds. ‘Five minutes. So…’ she purses her lips. ‘So…you’d better go then.’ She nods. ‘I’d run if I were you.’ She looks idly up and down the street. ‘Any minute now…’ She bites her bottom lip and sighs, blasting air out, waiting patiently for her friends. ‘Yep,’ she states. ‘Any minute now….with their big guns and…knives…and er…anyway. So thanks for not eating me last night but I’m like totally serious right now. You should go. Really. Bye. Go on….shoo….piss off…run away…’
Paco doesn’t shoo or piss off.
‘Seriously?’ She asks with an angry huff then adds another at the feeling of warm liquid dribbling down her legs. She looks down at the blood soaked end of the kitchen roll and the drip down her thigh. ‘I’m on my period,’ she tells Paco then immediately wonders why the hell she told him. ‘You’re movies are shit,’ she announces then runs across the lounge towards the bathroom. ‘REALLY SHIT,’ she shouts while yanking the kitchen roll out. ‘AND DON’T TRY AND COME UP EITHER.’ She twists the tap, runs the water and starts washing herself then panics and sprints back into the lounge to stare down at Paco staring up. ‘COCK,’ she tells him and runs back into the bathroom.
She cleans quickly before darting into the kitchen to grab the roll of kitchen paper and a mug of water then runs back into the lounge.
‘Why are you still there?’ She demands and rips several sheets of paper off the roll. ‘You can’t get in and I’m not coming out.’ She makes another ad-hoc tampon. ‘Got loads of food up here…tins and everything.’ She twists it into shape, bends forward and grunts while pushing it inside. ‘Don’t stare pervert.’
Paco continues to stare.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ she stands straight, grabs the mug and starts drinking the water. Her back hurts again and the cra
mps persist. She narrows her eyes over the rim of the mug, trying to assess what on earth is going on. She doesn’t say anything but acts suddenly nonchalant and disinterested, staring up into the sky then round at the street. She bursts away without warning. Running into the kitchen to grab tins from the cupboard, the tin opener, more water and the box of Nurofen before racing back into the lounge with her arms full. He’s still there. Staring up. Inert and silent. Still as dejected and forlorn as he was when she woke up.
‘See,’ she says, holding a tin up for him to see. ‘Got tins…’ she looks at the label and hides the distaste from her face. ‘Custard…yeah…nice custard,’ she scowls at him, giving him her best dirty look.
Heather opens the custard. She doesn’t like custard but taking the custard back now will be a show of defeat. She glances down to the thick gloopy yellow liquid. ‘Mmmm,’ she tells him, spooning the first mouthful up and into her gob. ‘So nice,’ she coughs at the texture and taste. ‘So good,’ she yacks but forces herself to swallow it. ‘Love custard,’ she informs Paco Maguire. She eats the next spoonful barely hiding the utter hatred for the vile evilness of it but she won’t back down, not when he’s watching her, like waiting to see her throw up or something. ‘S’nice,’ she gags and pauses at the tug in her throat that tells her she will puke if she puts another drop of that stuff in her mouth.
‘What else,’ she muses, covering the faux pas. ‘Look,’ she shows him. ‘Beans… and they’re Heinz and not supermarket ones…half the sugar and salt too.’
She eats the beans while making yummy noises and scowling at him at the same time as trying to ignore the need to piss. All that water last night. She crosses her legs, grunts and eats beans.
Paco stares up.
No good. She has to go. Like right now. She runs off again. Bursting away to sprint into the bathroom to sit on the toilet and release her bladder with a sudden sensation of relief. She wipes. Rinses her hands and runs back. He’s still there.
