Blood on the Floor: An Undead Adventure

by RR Haywood

  An image of last night sweeps into Heather’s mind. Of Paco doing his trademark move in the half shadows of the cinema office but to see it now, in broad daylight with the crack of the spinal column clear in the silent street is something else.

  ‘There,’ she shouts the instant she spots the rangy man running from the opposite direction. Alarm in her voice that makes Paco snap his attention to her then down to the older thin limbed creature loping towards him. A snarl and he’s off. Running to strike the same as before with an immense impact that sends the other infected flying off. Paco presses the attack, booting the body along the street until it hits a plate glass window that shatters to fall in wicked shards that slice deep into flesh. Paco pulls the bleeding snarling beast out by the arm. Dragging him along the road in a thick wake of blood pumping from the severed artery in the man’s thigh. He drops the wrist, turns and stamps down with a vicious action that crushes the head, killing the thing outright.

  Heather watches it. As awful as it is, as sickeningly violent as seeing the people being killed is she cannot turn away and in those few seconds she absorbs the way Paco moves. His whole manner that of an animal but using his feet, legs and hands like a human would do, like he’s something between them and her. But more them. So much more them.

  He comes back to his spot and once he’s looked round at his latest kills he turns to face up. The puppy looking at his master. Did I do good?’

  Now. It has to be now. An instinct that must be obeyed but still she denies it and refuses to go leave the perceived safety of her refuge.

  More come. More that have the hive mind within urging them to the centre. More that have festering injuries that writhe with maggots. More with greasy lank hair and hands clawed into talons. More that have spent the night and the day walking step after step, first towards the promise of a prey scented and then to cease the actions of one that cannot be controlled. The tension before increases and magnifies. It ramps to an altogether new level of infected creatures coming in from both sides.

  Two women from the left. Twin sisters who were born together, lived together and died together to be turned and stalk the area for fresh hosts together. Identical in every way save for the injuries adorning their bodies. A teenage boy from the right. Spotty skin and wisps of beard showing on his chin. His nose bitten off that leaves a gaping hole. An old woman behind the twins. A taxi driver still with his badge on a lanyard round his neck comes behind the teenager.

  Paco turns to stare first left then to the right and back to the left. Assessing. Watching. Scanning. A decision made and he goes for the teenage boy and taxi driver first. Bursting to sprint to run and charge with a gargled snarl that sounds from a damaged voice box. As he runs, so the others do the same. The boy, the cabbie, the twins and the old woman who all give speed to legs that come alive with energy sent pumping from an infection controlling every cell within their bodies. Rage inducing hormones are dumped into bloodstreams. Chemical production is ramped to surge that make them snarl and screech.

  Noise fills the street. Paco running with his feet pounding on the road. Heather looks to the twins. A jarring view of her eyes trying to process what the brain wants to perceive as the same person but doubled. They’re aiming for Paco and not the door on the street that leads to her.

  Without thinking, without conscious thought she grabs the wooden chair, flings it through the window and flinches in horror as it knocks the old lady to the ground. A split second later Paco grabs the teenager and sends him flying back into the cabbie.

  ‘BEHIND Y….’

  She tries to scream the warning but Paco is already turning to meet the twins head on. Literally running smack into the middle like a rugby player trying for a run between two opposing players. The women go down with a thud. Snarling and hissing as Paco anchors on and twists to go back.

  Heather frantically looks round the flat as the old woman starts to get up and as Paco starts to deal with the cabbie, the teenager and the twins so she sends a barrage of missiles down at the old lady. Empty tin cans at first. Then the mug she used to drink water that strikes the woman in her shoulder. She darts in, grabs the coffee table and heaves it over. The glass of wine and M&M’s slide off to land on the carpet. The table is flipped over so the broad top rests on the sill. She grips the edge, aims and grunts to send it sailing down twisting in the air. A corner hits the old woman’s skull, exploding it instantly with a shower of brains and blood as she goes down dead and finished.

  Paco finishes the other four with ease. Snapping two necks and stamping the twins under a flurry of hard feet attached to strong legs that pivot from strong hips held in balance by a strong core. He checks his kills, staring from one to the other before walking back to his spot. His manner consumed with rage. His lips snarling, chest heaving, arms bulging with muscles now spattered with the fresh blood of his kills. The whole of him an animal that has no hesitancy to kill and keep killing but he looks up with an expression that morphs as his head tilts. Did I do good? Innocence shows with a heart-breaking vulnerability.

  The resolution is formed. In that instant and in that second. She runs from the window to the corridor and with shaking hands she draws the bolts, unfastens the feeble security chain and starts running down the stairs. Halfway down her common sense kicks in, screaming to go back. She falters, slows and thinks to turn back but the resolution of her decision stands firm. A decision born by many factors all processed within the blink of an eye. Millions are dead. Tens of millions. The whole world has probably been hit. She’s seen death now. So much death that it will forever taint her soul and mark her dreams. She’s alive now though. She’s survived twelve days unscathed apart from last night and even that she walked away from and those infected she saw killed were people just like her. She’s had twelve extra days of life and Paco isn’t going anywhere. He’s shown that. He could stand there until she starves. More could come. Too many for him to fight and anyway, he can come in the second he chooses. The power is already in his hands. She’s alive only for the fact that man has chosen, for whatever reason, not to kill and turn her. So she keeps going. She heads down the flights of stairs to an inhuman beast that can tear people apart with his bare hands. She runs down knowing this is the worst mistake of her life so far. This is worse than leaving the church, coming to this forsaken town or hiding in this flat and getting herself trapped. This is the worst most stupid mistake she could ever make. This she knows. This she believes but being human is to be flawed and go against those thoughts. It’s the striving to do the stupid thing just to see what happens. Do it. Provoke it. Face it. Have grace and strength and do it with dignity with your chin held high. Stare death in the face and hold your nerve.

  On the last flight down her legs become rubber. Her gut twists and drops to sink and flip. Her vision narrows. Blood pounds through her skull. She walks down the hallway and out into the bright sun with her face warped by fear. Her legs want to give way. Her chest becomes tight. Breathing air is too hard. She feels light heated. Sick. Worried.

  He looks up. His face staring at the window where she was before. His head cocked over. His arms no longer tensed and his fists no longer clenched. His eyes flicker left and right as though looking and he takes a small shuffle forward.

  ‘Here,’ the word comes out choked and hoarse. Her jaw clamps shut as his head turns from staring up to staring down and over to rest his awful red bloodshot eyes on her. Instantly he settles and although he doesn’t change he just seems to relax into his stance. She is metres from him. She doesn’t dare blink but locks on and swallows to get moisture into her suddenly dry mouth. She flinches involuntarily with a shudder that makes her stumble then freeze. He watches her. His eyes never leaving her face. She takes in the size of him. His height and the width of his shoulders and the thickly muscled arms now hanging limp. He doesn’t twitch or move. He doesn’t blink but stands watching her. A puppy.

  He’s so famous and that fame makes him familiar. The injuries to his neck m
ake him awful yet the most powerful of all senses entering her mind is of a vulnerability.

  She steps towards him with naked soft feet that come down on a small pebble that digs into the soft arch of her right foot.

  ‘Shit,’ she yelps, hopping back from the stabbing pain. He flinches, his head jerking up with a small step taken towards her. She falls back, hopping and yelping again. Worried about him and worried about her foot. He flinches. She yelps. He flinches again and steps closer. She warbles a low scream and hops back into the wall that jars her elbow that makes her cry out again. He flinches, blinking hard, shuffling closer. She backs into the wall, her foot in agony that she lifts to bend and rub at the very second of realising she is still half-naked with kitchen roll poking out between her legs. She starts with a jolt that makes him flinch that makes her yelp that makes him shuffle. She stands straight, closing her legs tight together, blushing furiously. Suddenly he’s too close, looming at her. She shies away, trying to push through solid bricks while pushing a hand out into his chest. That hand hits him mid-centre, bringing him to a sudden stop. Her breath catches in her throat from the contact made and the fact he doesn’t rip her arm from the socket to beat her senseless with. She pulls her arm back quickly with a wince.

  ‘Sorry,’ she grimaces, smiling, worried and frowning all at the same time.

  He doesn’t move. He doesn’t kill her. She knows this as she is still alive and her foot really bloody hurts.

  Arse. She didn’t think this far into the plan. She’s backed against a wall with a zombified Paco Maguire looming over her. He stinks too. Like so bad. She gags and turns her head away with tears pricking her eyes.

  ‘Could you,’ she coughs and tries to draw clean air. ‘Could you step back please?’ She asks ever so politely.

  Paco doesn’t move.

  ‘Erm…um…just a bit?’ She asks, struggling to hide the disgust from the smell and the close sight of his awful injuries.

  Paco doesn’t move. He just stares. His eyes fixed on her face.

  ‘Oh shit,’ she reaches up, stretching out to place a hand on his solid chest. ‘Just a bit?’ she asks again still ever so politely.

  Paco still doesn’t step back. He looks down at the hand on his chest instead as though wondering what it is.

  ‘Just a step?’ she asks, pushing ever so slightly while speaking ever so politely while trying ever so hard not to vomit. She pushes harder. Paco doesn’t move. She huffs and tries a bit harder while offering him a wan weak smile. ‘Bit close…just go back a bit…’ She pushes harder then stands straight to generate a bit more force that’s sent down her arm into her hand pressing against his chest. ‘Look, Pal, you’re too bloody close,’ she says with an edge to her voice. ‘Go back…’ she pushes again then gets her other hand onto his chest to strain and grunt in an effort to lock her arms out and get him back. ‘Go back…just go back… PACO GO BACK.’

  Paco moves back as Heather becomes aware of the level of force she is using against him. Her hands drop, she smiles and nods while looking casually left and right. ‘Er thanks?’ She offers weakly and slides out to freedom.

  Paco turns. Tracking her movements as she walks out into the road and backs away from him to gulp air and bend over as though ready to spew.

  ‘You really stink,’ she mutters, waving a hand at him. ‘Like so bad…no no…’ she waves again, speaking firmly. ‘Stay there…’ he stops shuffling and watches. ‘Christ. When did you last wash?’

  Paco doesn’t tell her when he last washed.

  She recovers her wits and takes stock of the current situation of complete shittiness. Dead bodies everywhere. She’s half-naked and on her period. She looks at Paco, watching him intently.

  ‘Are you going to eat me?’ She asks outright, wanting to know right now exactly what his intentions are. ‘I probably taste really awful…I wouldn’t eat me,’ she adds quickly when he doesn’t answer. ‘Okay…can I assume you are not going to eat me? No? Yes? Right so…if you say nothing, like if you stay quiet then I will take that as a solemn vow, like a contractual er…contract that you will not now, or at any point in the future, try and eat me…or hurt me…or kill me…or do anything to me. Agreed?’ She nods at him. ‘Agreed?’ She nods again. ‘Paco? Is that agreed?’ She nods harder. Her eyes fixed on his. He doesn’t reply. ‘Good,’ she claims the agreement anyway after giving due time for any objections to be raised and discussed. ‘Glad we er…got that sorted.’

  She watches him watching her while wondering what the hell she is meant to do now. She came down here and confronted him but now what? Now? Now she needs to get out of this town as fast as humanly possible while drawing the least amount of attention to herself. She looks at the door to the flat with a half-forming intention to head back upstairs then remembers the flat isn’t hers and nothing in it is hers either. She looks at Paco again, round at the street and the dead bodies then over to the broken windows of the shops and finally down at her own bare legs with a list already being written in her head.

  Clothes. Bag. Stuff to go in the bag. Get out.

  Good.

  Got a plan.

  Twelve

  She walks fast. Desperate to be away from this town and having given only the barest of thought as to direction or route.

  The strangest thing was that she started to walk off and turned to see him still standing there. For a second she worried he wouldn’t follow her and that she had misread the entire situation. It was an absurd second of abject worry that gave her as much concern as coming down to confront him in the first place. What if he was waiting for someone else? Maybe he knew someone who lived in that block?

  Then he twitched as though realising she was going and started trotting after her. Of course she tutted and rolled her eyes to show she wasn’t happy at being followed but the corners of her mouth did curl ever so slightly. Not that he saw. She’d turned away by that point.

  Now she rushes on past the precinct while trying to tug the hem of her top down to cover her bare arse. Got to get clothes. Got to get a bag and some shoes. Got to get out of here. Which is most important? Which one takes priority? She can’t run about half nudey but this place is too full of infected to hang about browsing for new clobber.

  She tugs harder, stretching the material that pings back to shape the second she lets go. Is he looking at her arse? She glances back but spots only the puppy look on his face. Christ, there’s bodies everywhere. This town has really suffered. Every window is smashed and every door is bust open. Maybe she should get into the smaller side streets and away from the main road? Is he looking at her arse? She checks again and frowns at his puppy face while tugging her top down. She huffs and puffs, sighs and scans the sides. The tarmac is so hot under her feet and the sweat is already pouring from her face from a crushing humidity.

  Maybe she could grab some clothes now. Like really quickly. Grab some knickers, socks, a bag, water and whatever else she can find instantly. Shorts, trousers, jeans. Anything will do. She speeds up, wincing at the pain in her feet from the debris left on the road and the hot tarmac tenderising the soft skin of her soles. She glances back trying to catch him leering at her backside. He is Paco Maguire after all. He just stares dumb as a house brick and stupid as the day is hot.

  Instantly recognisable signs for stores pass by. New Look. Topshop. Next. All looted and looking dangerously empty with blood stains on windows and doors. She passes Dorothy Perkins, River Island, John Lewis and Debenhams but they’re all the same. Keep going. Get out of the town and find clothes later.

  She lasts another two minutes before her feet scream for her to stop and find shoes. The tarmac is too hot. The stones are too sharp and she’s at risk of cutting her skin on a road already covered in dried blood. That thought makes her come to a sudden stop with the concept of walking on infected blood without shoes and anyway, she’s sure he’s looking at her bum.

  TK Maxx. That’ll do. The door is smashed in but the window is intact despite the thick smear o
f crimson going across the full width of the plate glass. She tries to listen but hears only Paco’s breathing so takes a step away to gain distance from him. He steps too. She recoils from the whiff and scans round before darting through the ruined doorway.

  Instant relief comes from the shade inside and the linoleum floor is several degrees cooler than the super-heated tarmac. She sniffs as though trying to detect any foul smells of anything inside but smells only Paco shuffling in behind her. She looks at him again, at the injuries to his neck and the skin on his face covered in grime, filth and looking wrinkled like he’s sunburnt and very dehydrated. His lips are cracked. His teeth stained and filthy. His beard matted with dried saliva. Every inch of his skin is either cut, bruised, bitten or just plain dirty and his hands are encrusted with black dirt and dried blood.

  She treads softly to walk down the width of the store to see down the aisles, making sure there is no one else here. The air is musty, like it was in the flat when she went in and she looks down to the layer of undisturbed dust on the floor then back to track hers and Paco’s footprints from the main door. That’s a good sign. Now move fast, get what you need and go.

  She goes for shoes first. Searching for a pair of sturdy yet lightweight hiking shoes, walking shoes or trainers. Something that she can run in but that won’t let broken glass through to jab into her foot. A pair of grey and purple things are grabbed. She checks for size then rushes on towards the underwear section but veers off on seeing the bags hanging from hooks.

  Christ, this is a dream come true. The place has hardly been touched. At any other time in her life this would be heaven. To peruse at one’s own pace and take whatever you want would be bliss. Now it’s an act of necessity pushed on by an urge to get out.