The Undead: Day 22

by Haywood, R. R.

  He has to tell the others what he knows, or rather, what he thinks they need to know because the time is nearly here for him to place his few pieces on the board and play the game.

  He also knows that to follow the path they need will certainly push them into the most peril they have ever faced and there is every chance they will not survive.

  He sighs heavily and looks out the open back door through the sweltering heat haze to Paula and Clarence standing too close together and tuts before looking beyond them to everyone else on the road.

  ‘Damn it,’ he mutters, focussing back on Clarence as the big man leans down to hear what Paula is saying as two more supercars roar up the road. The chemistry between them is obvious, even to Reginald. The way they’re both folding their arms as though showing everyone they are merely chatting while in fact, they’re having to consciously resist the desire to reach out and touch one another. ‘It’s no good,’ Reginald tells his desk, drumming his unbroken fingers on the table-top. ‘No good at all…’ he can’t have it. He cannot tolerate a risk to his unity but what’s to be done? The lure of people who wish to copulate and mate is powerful, and Reginald cannot always be present to dissuade them. He thinks again at manipulating a situation whereby Paula is killed but that would destroy them so soon after losing Blinky. ‘Damn it,’ he says again in frustration that not only has he got the future of humanity to worry about but also the dangers of Paula and Clarence behaving like blasted teenagers. ‘Blasted people,’ he grumbles, seeing Paula place her hands on her hips and shake her head.

  ‘PLEASE!’ Mo shouts from the road.

  ‘I SAID NO,’ Paula shouts, her hands still on her hips.

  ‘AW COME ON…’ Mo shouts, placing his hands together as though in prayer. ‘I’LL BE SAFE…STRAIGHT LINE UP AND DOWN…PLEASE PAULA!’

  ‘Go on, let him,’ Clarence murmurs, smiling at the sight of Mo as everyone around him laughs.

  She shakes her head but can’t help the grin showing that makes Mo’s eyes sparkle with hope. ‘Yeah? Can I?’ he asks, nodding eagerly.

  ‘Go on, Paula,’ Nick calls out. ‘It’s safe enough.’

  That does it and within a second everyone is calling out for Paula to let Mo race. Tappy included.

  ‘Fine,’ Paula gives in, laughing at the sight as Mo bursts to a sprint, leaping over the railing to throw his arms around her, almost knocking her over. ‘Idiot,’ she laughs, kissing his head. ‘Just go easy.’

  ‘I will!’ he runs back, leaping the barrier once more. ‘THANKS PAULA…’

  ‘I say, this all looks very exciting,’ Reginald says, stepping next to Paula. ‘Little Mo Mo joining in is he?’

  ‘Er yeah, yeah he is,’ Paula says, moving away a step from the uncomfortably close proximity of Reginald assuming the space between her and Clarence. ‘Hang on a bloody minute,’ she snaps, staring over at the cars lining up to race and seeing Mo rush to get inside one of the cars. ‘Isn’t that the fast one…the Bugatti thing…MO YOU LITTLE SOD!’

  Dave shouts the countdown and a second later the cars go past with Paula grimacing at her little Mo giving a frantic wave while grinning from ear to ear behind the steering wheel of a Bugatti Veyron. What she, or Mo, don’t notice is that Nick is driving the other car much slower than normal.

  ‘He’s taking it easy,’ Tappy says to Charlie from the start line.

  ‘Nick?’ Charlie asks. ‘He’s lovely like that, they all are really. Very protective.’

  ‘Cool,’ Tappy says, detecting the pain in Charlie’s eyes. The same with all of them, the same with her too, but then none can get this far into surviving and not suffer but she smiles and waves as the cars come back and Mo leaps out to run with his hands in the air at beating Nick.

  Danny doesn’t drive any of the cars, not given the fact he smashed a van into a shop in an otherwise quite deserted street. He does, however, sit in with the others as they drive. Laughing at the speed and sensation then taking his guarding role very seriously in between. Holding his rifle properly and looking round properly while hoping he is doing it all properly and feeling relieved everyone seems to have forgotten about the whip marks on his back and his racist stepdad.

  The rain comes during another race between Nick and Tappy. The two of them having driven every combination of car to try and best the other with increasing competitiveness.

  Nick in the Ferrari 458. Tappy in a Gallardo. Both hammering down the road to turn at speed, slewing round to face back the other way. Engines screaming. Hands gripping steering wheels. Wheel rubber burning and back they go to the finish line, Nick just edging in front to take the win and surging out to run over as Tappy pushes out of the Gallardo shaking her head.

  ‘FUCK YES!’ Nick shouts.

  ‘Lucky,’ Tappy says, holding her hand out. ‘High five on that…’ She drops the hand as he goes to high five, arching an eyebrow.

  ‘Oooh, left you hanging,’ Cookey laughs.

  ‘Cheeky fucker,’ Nick says, and the heavens open with an instant ferocity. From quiet to noise. From sunshine to the sky suddenly darker and full of low angry clouds but the feel of the cooling rain on their hot skin makes them gasp and turn their faces to the sky, drenched in seconds with the sweat rinsing away.

  None of them move. None want to move. A moment in time that brings them all to silence. Grimy, hot and sticky but now suddenly cooler and so they stand and listen to the billions of tiny drums beating all about them.

  Tappy opens her mouth to let it fill with pure clean water, drinking some then spitting more out and chuckling as it sprays up into the air. She does it again, standing with her head back facing the sky with her mouth stretched wide open to take the water in before spraying it up and laughing at the feel and sight. Charlie looks at her, feeling the strangeness of a shaved head in the rain and the way the rivers run over her scalp. She watches Tappy laugh and shake her head side to side then stamp her feet to splash more water with a weird happy yelping noise that makes the others look over.

  ‘SO NICE,’ Tappy yells out, grinning widely with her mouth turned up slightly to the left. ‘SO BLOODY NICE,’ she shouts louder, making Blowers and Cookey share a smile and a look. She yelps again, crying out in delight then reaches up to loosen her hair to shake her head in the rain. Nick smiles at the sight. Howie too. The way she shouts out, whooping and laughing, jumping on the spot like a child in glee then she goes still, drawing air before leaning back to shout at the sky. ‘FUCK YOU…’ she screams as loud as she can with rage and pain and anguish showing as the veins in her neck push out and her face flushes red, then she lowers her head to stare about and slowly that offset smile comes back. ‘Wow, that feels better…’ she says almost to herself before looking over at Howie. ‘Can I do it again?’

  Howie shrugs, unsure of how the hell you give someone permission to shout at the sky.

  She draws air, sucking in a lungful and leans back to scream out. No words this time but just a scream. Loud, hard and rising as she goes on. Meredith starts barking. Her tail swishing. Her coat sodden and her eyes fixed on Tappy without hint of aggression or threat.

  Tappy stops to gasp, her chest heaving. Her face flushed but exhilarated. ‘I’m alive,’ she tells Meredith, dropping down to run her hands over the dog’s coat. ‘We’re alive…ALIVE…’ she laughs and gees Meredith up to bark and jump about as the others look on. That she would do this on her own is clear to all of them and she stands again, inhaling to lean back and scream and howl as Meredith gives voice and when Tappy stops she lowers her head to gasp in the pouring rain then look over to Charlie. ‘Come on…feels amazing…’

  ‘Oh I don’t…’ Charlie says quickly, shaking her head.

  ‘Try it…’ Tappy leans back to scream, running on the spot in the rain and laughing. ‘TRY IT CHARLIE…’

  ‘I don’t…’

  ‘You’re not dead,’ Tappy cuts her off.

  ‘My friend is,’ Charlie says bluntly. ‘And I do not wish to…’

  ‘I woke up
on the first night to my twelve-year-old sister biting me…’ Tappy says, dropping her head again to look at Charlie. ‘I killed her…then my mum…and my dad…and my brothers…’ she bites off in a sob, closing her eyes, biting back the pain and anguish so evident as the tears flow to mix with the rain. The rage there. The need to do violence in revenge. Then she shakes her head again, forcing a smile. ‘But I’m alive,’ she looks at Charlie and leans back to scream again with Meredith barking and howling.

  Charlie inhales and stares down at the ground, at the way the raindrops bounce in the puddles already forming. She breathes out and listens to Tappy howling and feels stupid and self-conscious and daft because British people don’t do this. They get on with it.

  Then she screams. She doesn’t even know she is screaming but it comes out and it comes out sudden and loud with her eyes blazing and tears streaming, and she throws her head back to vent the rage inside, pushing it out with everything she has. A hand in hers. Tappy at her side and she screams with a stranger on a road she doesn’t know. She screams for the pain inside as the rain lashes down. She shows her teeth and gives voice with Meredith who howls long and hard with them.

  Howie lifts his head, feeling the rain run down over his skin to pour from his jaw. Visibility now down to less than a hundred metres. They’ve made noise here today which could draw the things to attack and the danger is now heightened for that lack of being able to see them coming and common sense dictates that he get everyone moving now.

  He doesn’t though. Instead, he brings his rifle round to the front and makes ready while turning to face out with his back to Charlie and Tappy. A ripple goes round as the lads do the same. Bringing weapons to hand and turning to look out to stand in the rain and watch and wait so their mate can do what she needs to do. Eyes hardening. Heads up. Danny glances to the two women that don’t know each other now screaming into the air but a few yards away and a huge dog howling with them.

  The army’s weird Danny, you’ll spend ninety percent of the time not having a clue what’s going on. Just go with it. It’s always easier to flow with it than fight against it.

  Danny makes his weapon ready and turns to face out, his dark eyes staring into the squall of grey formed from the lashing rain. His hands steady and gripping his rifle.

  Time passes but no impatience is shown. Not a tut. Not a gripe. Well, one does tut silently and gripes a bit inside his head but then Reginald doesn’t like standing in the rain and only does it now so Paula and Clarence don’t get carried away and start tearing each other’s clothes off. He lifts his head when it falls silent, hopeful that it’s over and they can get on with finding shelter. Then he sighs when they start again and blows air through his cheeks as the rain runs over the lenses of his glasses. Again it falls silent and hope builds only to be dashed when the screaming comes and again he looks about with idle curiosity, smiling at Paula one side and Clarence the other.

  On the road, in the centre of the circle, Charlie screams from the pain inside. Her hand squeezing Tappy’s who keeps seeing the images in her mind of her sister wild and crazed with red bloodshot eyes and hands clawed to talons. Tappy didn’t even live with her family. She was only meant to be staying the night to catch up and spend some time and the visions of that night swim through her head. Something primeval and malevolent and if anyone had ever asked Tappy what she would have done in such a situation she would have said she’d rather die than hurt her family. Except a switch inside was flicked and at the very second she thought it was over, in that very second of terror and utter anguish, she chose to live and killed to achieve it.

  Now they both lower their heads and look at each other without shame and without pity while inside there is a lessening of the guilt that they live while others died.

  A twitch of lips from Tappy. Her eyes glued to Charlie who smiles faintly which in turn makes Tappy smile wider, her mouth turning up in that endearing way. ‘Thank you,’ Charlie says quietly.

  ‘S’okay,’ Tappy says. ‘What happens now?’ she asks, the rain pouring down her face. ‘I mean…people said you’re fighting back…’

  ‘We are,’ Charlie says honestly. ‘But if you stay then you’ll probably die…’

  A snort, a grim smile. ‘There’s worse things than death. What’s Mr Howie like? He’s not like I expected…I thought he’d be like mean and angry and…I don’t know.’

  Charlie turns to stare at the back of Howie. An unassuming man by any degree. Quiet sometimes. Polite, almost shy. Just a supermarket manager. ‘You’ll see,’ she whispers, looking back at Tappy who shrugs and widens her eyes before grinning.

  ‘Fuck it, I get a new bag…I’m in…’

  Thirteen

  Day Fourteen

  Too many things happening and for the first time in days, Cassie feels real fear and confusion.

  The storm outside increasing with power and ferocity. The rain lashing the windows so hard she thinks they’ll break and the thunder so deep it seems to shake the world about them. Flashes of lightning strobing the sky. Bolts searing into existence that lighten the faces of the dozen men standing in at the bar and the other four seated at a table gathered around the old man.

  She made the mistake of running out after Gregori with her knickers still off and her boobs spilling from her bra. The shotgun in one hand and the sleeping boy cradled in the other and she ran into the lobby to see Gregori standing with his guns lowered as the dozen or so men looked her up and down with eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. The thought of men staring at her like that with Gregori so close before would have given her a deep thrill, but she knew instantly that something was very different and very wrong.

  Now she sits in front of a window at a table on her own in a low seat, sweating in the thick gown that she managed to get back into with the boy asleep in her arms, murmuring fitfully in dream. He’s so hot, his little body pumping heat but she dares not loosen her gown for fear of the lust in the men’s eyes.

  Hard men. Big men too. One of them at the table is huge. Pumped on steroids with a neck thicker than one of her thighs but she can see the old man is in charge from the way the others all defer to him. She can also see a man with slicked back dark hair who looks to be second in command. He’s handsome with clear skin and a strong jaw. She’s deduced they’re all Albanian from the fact Gregori understands their language, and she has further deduced they are criminal types from the tattoos of double-headed eagles on their arms, hands and necks and from the jewellery they wear and the weapons they carry.

  She stares across the room, sweeping her gaze over the men at the bar all drinking Vodka from shot glasses. The air thick with cigarette smoke. Guns everywhere. Black leather jackets and tight black tops showing muscular tattooed arms. The four men at the table. The old man sipping whiskey. An overcoat draped over his shoulders. His liver-spotted bald head gleaming with a layer of sweat. The other three with him, smoking and drinking too like a scene from a low-budget gangster movie. The only difference to the setting is Gregori sitting in bright flowery swimming shorts on a plain wooden chair. His hands on his knees. His eyes lowered. His whole manner that of a child given punishment. Subservient and silent. Why didn’t he fight back when he first saw them? He is Gregori. He’s faster and harder than everyone but suddenly that near-mythical awe she had for the man is diminished now he is surrounded by such men.

  ‘We knew you completed the task,’ the old man says in Albanian. His voice old but deep and strong.

  ‘Yes,’ Gregori says, facing down.

  ‘It was good too,’ the old man says, looking around at his men who all nod eagerly.

  ‘Very good,’ Ylli says, the second in command, the handsome one who keeps looking at Cassie. ‘To you, Gregori,’ he says, lifting his glass.

  ‘To you, Gregori,’ Behar and Ditmer say, raising their glasses to Gregori who doesn’t have a glass because he is not part of their clan. He is not one of them. He is not fis.

  Every Albanian gang originates from a
clan, from a fis, and every gang is headed by an overall boss, the Krye. Every clan member is related to every other clan member, by blood or by marriage. Everyone is connected, and the Besa demands that everyone give complete allegiance to the Krye

  Gregori gave in because the Krye told him to, and the Krye must always be respected. The Besa demands it. Every beating Gregori took as a child, every time he was whipped, starved, hit, half-drowned and left in the cold to eat rats was to make him always honour the Besa, because the Besa is more than a code of conduct, it is more than a way of life. It is life.

  ‘To the uglyman,’ Ylli calls out, raising his glass to the men at the bar who repeat the words in deep, harsh voices and lean their heads back to down the contents of their shot glasses before slamming those glasses down hard on the bar, making Cassie flinch and the boy jolt in his sleep and still Gregori shows no reaction.

  The Krye sips his scotch whiskey savouring the burn in his throat. ‘How long have you been here, Gregori?’

  ‘Today,’ Gregori replies instantly, his voice as gravelly as ever but somehow quieter, less menacing.

  ‘Today?’ the Krye says mildly. ‘It is a good find for the night but…’ he pauses, turning his mouth down at the sides. ‘Not a position for a length of time. Too many windows, too many doors. Too hard to defend. I see these things, Gregori.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gregori says.

  ‘No, it is shelter for the night, but we will move on when the storm passes. I am glad to have found you, Gregori. You will join our fis, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gregori says.

  ‘Of course you will,’ the old man says with complete authority. ‘It was not a question, Gregori. You are with us now and we are not weak like the English. What has happened may be terrible, but we have known terror, Gregori, and we will rise to the top now. The world is falling but the world is still turning. Isn’t that so, Ylli.’

  ‘To opportunity,’ Ylli says, raising his glass as every other man in the room does the same, once more glugging down their drinks before slamming the glasses down on the bar top and tables.