The Undead Day Seventeen

by RR Haywood

‘She thirsty?’ Nick looks down at Meredith sniffing through the piles of goodies, ‘when did she last drink?’

  Not waiting for a reply he turns the cold tap on and swills the plastic washing bowl out before filling it up. She comes to his side, panting and wagging her tail.

  ‘I’ll go see what the rest want to do,’ Blowers says moving towards the door.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Mo Mo says.

  ‘Nah,’ Blowers replies, ‘get stuck in,’ he nods towards the food.

  ‘I’m there,’ Mo Mo beats him to the door, ‘I’ll see what they want to do right?’

  ‘You sure?’ Blowers asks, ‘I don’t mind going.’

  ‘I’m younger,’ Mo Mo says with a quick smile, ‘fitter…you get me.’

  ‘Cheeky twat,’ Blowers laughs, ‘go on then.’

  He turns back to see the dog lapping greedily at the bowl and Nick taking a cigarette from his packet, ‘want one?’

  ‘Go on,’ Cookey catches the pack before passing it to Blowers, ‘he gone?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Blowers says checking the door behind him.

  ‘He’s quiet,’ Cookey observes in a low voice.

  ‘Hit him hard,’ Nick says, ‘they were good mates.’

  ‘We’ll keep an eye,’ Blowers lights the cigarette and drifts over to the stacks of food.

  ‘You think they’ll be alright?’ Cookey asks.

  ‘Who?’ Blowers asks in return.

  ‘Your mum and the fucking postman, Mr Howie and Marcy you dumb fuck,’ Cookey says.

  ‘Yeah, they’ll be alright.’

  ‘They really going at each other,’ Cookey says drawing on his smoke, ‘d’you think Mr Howie really hates her?’

  ‘Why? Do you?’ Nick asks.

  ‘Me? Nah, like…I think she’s nice…like…I shouldn’t like her but I do, and Reggie…’

  ‘Same,’ Nick leans against the kitchen side, ‘you think she’s still infected?’

  ‘Fuck knows, Blowers?’ Cookey asks.

  ‘Asking me for?’ Blowers says, ‘how would I know?’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Howie really hates her,’ Nick says after a silent pause.

  ‘No?’ Cookey asks, ‘you think he likes her? Like likes her?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Nick snorts, ‘don’t you?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Cookey says, ‘I miss Lani.’

  ‘Fucking stop it,’ Blowers shoots him a dark look, ‘don’t do that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Cookey mutters, ‘what’s gonna happen now? I mean, what we gonna do?’

  ‘Again,’ Blowers says, ‘what the fuck you asking me for?’

  ‘Just asking you touchy cunt.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Get bent.’

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘Wish what?’

  ‘That I was bent.’

  ‘You are bent.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Your mum is.’

  ‘My mum is bent?’

  ‘So bent.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ Nick groans.

  ‘Blowers, Nick wants to be fucked.’

  ‘Twat,’ Blowers sighs.

  ‘Did you see the way Mr Howie spoke to Lani last night,’ Cookey finally gets to the thing on his mind, ‘that was…I don’t know but…’

  ‘Weird,’ Nick picks up the train of thought, ‘he knew, straight away…fucking knew she was turned and he was right at it…at the infection I mean.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Cookey says, ‘I’ve never met anyone like that before, have you?’

  ‘Like who?’ Nick asks, ‘Lani?’

  ‘Mr Howie.’

  ‘No, not by a fucking mile. Or Dave, or Clarence either…’

  ‘Blowers, did you meet people when you were in the army before?’

  ‘Did I meet people?’ Blowers asks, ‘no I was on my own…they gave me an instruction book and a gun and said to train myself.’

  ‘Funny cunt, I meant did you meet people like them?’

  ‘I was in for a few weeks,’ Blowers says, ‘and no I didn’t…I don’t think even they met people like them before this.’

  ‘We’re doing something,’ Cookey says seriously.

  ‘Do what?’ Blowers asks after a pause and bursting out laughing.

  ‘Yeah we’re in here,’ Nick laughs.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Cookey groans, ‘I meant we’re doing something…like a real something.’

  ‘What?’ Blowers asks still laughing.

  ‘Something special, like…it means something…you both know that right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Nick’s laugh dies down to a low chuckle, ‘you’re a twat for saying it like that but yeah.’

  ‘Blowers!’

  ‘In here,’ the laughter is gone and three men grab weapons and make for the door as Mo Mo charges up the stairs, ‘what?’

  ‘They’s all got loads too,’ he stops for breath, ‘and Mr Howie said to eat now and meet back in an hour.

  ‘Fuck yes!’ Cookey is gone, moving back to the food and ripping through the plastic coverings to pull tins and packets out, ‘who is being mum? Shall I be mum? You’d like that you dirty fuckers,’ he adds at the other two laughing.

  ‘We going all in or being civilised?’ Blowers asks picking up a tin of baked beans.

  ‘FUCK!’

  ‘What?’ Blowers turns quickly to Nick standing over the gas hob.

  ‘Gas is on,’ Nick says, ‘fucking gas is still on…actually on…look…’ he steps aside to show the blue flames of the hob burning bright.

  ‘Right you heathen motherfuckers,’ Cookey says, ‘we’re doing this civilised…with plates and forks and shit.’

  ‘We could just eat from the tins,’ Nick says with a worried look at Cookey’s air of determination. ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Gonna heat this up and have a meal,’ Cookey announces, ‘a hot meal and we’ll sit at the table and say Grace and everything.’

  ‘I don’t say Grace,’ Mo Mo says suddenly, ‘I’m Muslim.’

  ‘Shit, sorry Mo,’ Cookey blurts, ‘we can say what you do…say…or like…you cunt,’ he laughs at the grin splitting Mo Mo’s face. ‘Thought I’d offended you then.’

  ‘Do Muslim’s say Grace?’ Nick asks.

  ‘They pray,’ Mo Mo says, ‘like before and after the food, like giving thanks to Allah…You’re meant to do it before and after everything.’

  ‘Really? Do you do it?’

  ‘Me? No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Pray.’

  ‘Pray? Fuck that, I don’t pray.’

  ‘I’m no different to you. I don’t pray,’ Mo Mo says.

  Nick thinks while moving across to the table. Sitting down heavily he stretches his legs out, ‘so like, your name is Mohammed then?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Were you parents Muslim?’

  ‘No they called me Mohammed for fun.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nick, you thick cunt,’ Blowers laughs as he sits down at the table.

  ‘Oh,’ Nick looks at the grin on Mo’s face, ‘sorry.’

  ‘Yeah they’s Muslim but fucked up, like…’ he trails off.

  ‘What?’ Nick presses.

  ‘Nuffin’ It ain’t interesting.’

  ‘Yeah it is, go on.’

  ‘My grandparents were like fucking proper devout, you get me? Like full on…my mum and dad were raised strict but they’s were here, in England so they’d didn’t wanna be so strict but my mum had to be cos they’d hurt her but my dad didn’t…and he was drinking and gamblin’ and fightin’ and getting nicked…and like, my mum was disowned cos she got with him.’

  ‘Shit,’ Blowers says, ‘but they still called you Mohammed though.’

  ‘My dad wanted to call me Mark,’ Mo laughs, ‘but my mum said I had to be Mohammed. Dad hated it, hated what people thought of it…hated the terrorist stuff and…’

  ‘Did anyone give you shit for that?’ Nick asks.

  ‘What for p
eople blowing shit up? No, not ever…not on the estate. It weren’t like that…like everyone was from somewhere else…’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Nick says.

  ‘Mo is what my dad called me cos he wouldn’t say Mohammed.’

  ‘So do you eat pork?’ Nick asks.

  ‘Like yeah I do but…like it feels wrong and…like on my own I won’t eat it and…but like when I was with the crew and they were eating it then I’d eat it but…s’fucked up innit,’ he says with a laugh.

  ‘You don’t have to eat it now,’ Cookey says listening from the kitchen.

  ‘Eat what I can now,’ Mo says.

  ‘Fact,’ Nick says.

  ‘You don’t want the beans with pork sausages in them then?’ Cookey asks, ‘what about Macaroni?’

  ‘Anything,’ Mo finally sits down at the table, ‘so what we doing now? Like after this I mean?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Blowers says, ‘the boss’ll get an idea and we’ll do something…probably attack London or something fucking nuts.’

  ‘London? What like proper?’

  ‘He would,’ Nick chuckles, ‘and we would too,’ he adds ruefully.

  ‘He’d do it on his own,’ Cookey calls out, ‘with just the axe…like fucking charge head on and take them all out.’

  ‘Dave’d be with him,’ Nick says.

  ‘And us,’ Mo Mo says quickly.

  ‘Fuck yes,’ Nick laughs again, ‘give Meredith some food, Cookey.’

  ‘I’m busy, you do it.’

  ‘I thought you were being Gordon Ramsay.’

  ‘Yeah but not the fucking dog feederer too for fuck’s sake…what do I give her?’

  ‘No beans,’ Blowers shouts, ‘use that tuna…she loves tuna.’

  ‘How many tins do I give her?’

  ‘Fucking hell, Cookey…’ Blowers huffs, ‘shall I do it?’

  ‘I don’t know, shall you? Shall you like to get off your fat arse?’

  ‘I don’t have a fat arse, Paula and Marcy said so.’

  ‘Marcy has a lovely arse,’ Cookey says with a firm nod, ‘and great…’

  ‘Alex!’ Nick says imitating Dave.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Cookey laughs, ‘oh poor April.’

  ‘Don’t start that,’ Blowers groans.

  ‘What we need,’ Cookey says between spooning the contents of a tin into a saucepan, ‘is a load of women…like a netball or hockey team or something…all hiding and we find them and rescue them and they’re like oh boys you’re all so handsome and strong and we’re like it’s okay ladies we’re just doing our job and they’re like oh how can we ever repay you and we’re like we don’t need payment and they’d be like oh but boys surely you must be rewarded for your bravery…but alas it is our moisturising time and we must moisturise but our hands are so soft and we need strong hands to do the moisturising and we’d be like oh we can help you with the moisturising and they’d be like oh boys come with us so you can moisturise our bodies and we’d be like FUCK YES!’ He pauses to watch the others laughing hard, ‘and then Blowers would be like but I don’t moisturise ladies…do you have any men netball players I can moisturise and they’d be like only old Bert who drives our coach and Blowers would be like I shall moisturise Bert I shall for shalling and moisturising men is what I like to do and the women would be like oh but Nick is with Lilly and that only leaves two of you to moisturise so many of us beautiful ladies… and then while you two,’ Cookey points at Nick and Blowers, ‘are playing with Bert me and Mo would be in a room with a load of naked hockey players and…and…yeah so fucking chew on that fact. You up for that Mo Mo?’

  ‘Fuck yes!’

  ‘Have fun with Bert, Blowers.’

  ‘I will,’ Blowers says wiping the tears from his eyes.

  ‘Nick can film you seeing as he’s married now.’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Good as. Can you mix macaroni with beans?’

  ‘No,’ Blowers says.

  ‘Too late, done it.’

  ‘What the fuck, what are you doing?’

  ‘Putting it in together…in pans…cooking and shit.’

  ‘Cookey, you can’t just put everything in a pan and call it cooking.’

  ‘Fuck you and yes I can…because, Simon, I have already done it.’

  ‘Don’t call me Simon, Alex. What have you put in so far?’

  ‘Don’t call me Alex, Simon er….everything?’

  ‘What’s everything?’

  ‘Everything, Nicholas, is baked beans, some tins of tuna, er…pasta…macaroni cheese and ravioli, then I threw some pot noodles in but not the fruit…I can put the fruit in now if you want?’

  ‘Pot noodles? You’ve put them in the pan?’

  ‘Yes, Nicholas I have put them in the pan.’

  ‘What dry?’

  ‘No I spat on them first.’

  ‘Cock.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Nick says, ‘Mo, can you cook?’

  ‘Nah mate.’

  ‘Oi, I’m cooking and doing a good job of it.’

  ‘That isn’t cooking, Cookey…that’s…’

  ‘Plates?...Actually I think bowls will be better…ooh I’ve got an idea how about we go French and have the big pan in the middle and everyone can dig in.’

  ‘That’s not French,’ Nick says, ‘that’s fucked up.’

  ‘WATCH OUT,’ Cookey shouts while hefting the big steaming pan across the kitchen, ‘hot stuff coming through…hot stuff…coming through…carrying a hot pan…gonna drop it…fuck it’s too hot!’

  ‘Such a cunt,’ Blowers snaps as the pan slams onto the table.

  ‘Bowls,’ Cookey comes back carrying four big bowls and a huge ladle, ‘right, don’t be shy.’

  The other three stare down into the pan, at the gooey mess steaming away.

  ‘Is it safe?’ Mo Mo asks quietly, ‘we’s gonna be poisoned.’

  ‘Definitely,’ Blowers says.

  ‘Fact,’ Nick adds, ‘fuck it, food’s food,’ he ladles a generous portion into a bowl and sits down to take the first mouthful.

  The other two stare, waiting, watching, expectant to see Nick keel over clutching his throat or vomit to the side. He doesn’t. Instead he nods and takes another mouthful.

  Blowers goes next, a small spoonful taken cautiously. Mo Mo follows suit with an equally small amount wobbling on his spoon.

  ‘Twats,’ Cookey tuts and helps himself, filling his bowl before sitting down and looking at his own serving. He starts to load his spoon and stops. Baked beans squashed with tuna and cheesy pasta with all manner of other things stuffed in there. Over to the kitchen he looks and the serving heaped into a bowl on the floor for Meredith who edges closer with neck stretched out to sniff the contents.

  ‘S’nice,’ Nick says.

  ‘Is actually,’ Blowers takes a bigger spoonful and shovels into his mouth. An explosion of taste and texture. Soft food that releases tangy juice. Warm and filling.

  ‘S’good,’ Mo Mo says between mouthfuls, ‘really good.’

  ‘No faith,’ Cookey sighs and starts eating as Meredith finally licks the top of her mound then decides that it is edible and tucks in with big snapping bites.

  In silence they eat, bowls emptied and re-filled. Meredith gets a second portion. Nick takes a third bowl and feels his stomach starting to expand. Holes are filled. The gnawing hunger abates. Blood sugar rises and the here and now suddenly isn’t so bleak.

  Mo Mo looks up at the lads. Young but so old and experienced. Blowers glances at Mo as the youngest member takes another mouthful. Cookey dreams of netball girls while Nick simply eats and the dog snuffles the floor around her bowl.

  ‘Fuck,’ Nick sighs heavily and pushes his bowl away, ‘nice, Cookey…very nice. Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘I’m still eating,’ Cookey says.

  ‘Oh well,’ Nick lights up anyway and flicks a finger to the scornful look from Cookey.

  ‘Done,’ Cookey burps, ‘chuck one over.’

  ‘Blowers?’ Nick ask
s.

  ‘Go on then. You don’t smoke then Mo?’

  ‘Just weed.’

  ‘Fair one,’ Blowers lights his and inhales contentedly, ‘bother you if we smoke?’

  ‘Yeah, like…can you’s stop.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Nick asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ Mo Mo grins slyly.

  ‘Dick,’ Nick smiles.

  An air of content. A period of relaxation. To digest and talk quietly with mild jokes and mild rebukes. Time off from the relentless action of fighting, running, killing and trying to survive.

  Meredith lies down and starts cleaning herself. Cookey sits back in his chair and sighs. Nick blinks heavily. Blowers scrapes his chair back to lift his legs to rest on the corner of the table. Mo Mo freezes. His face going from an expression of being satiated to one of intense concern.

  ‘What?’ Blowers drops his legs at catching the sight of the young lad.

  ‘Fuck,’ Mo Mo’s nostrils flare.

  ‘What?’ Cookey sits up.

  Meredith lifts her head and cocks it to one side. Ears up, eyes focused and slowly the hackles on her back rise as she lifts from the ground to stand square and solid.

  Blowers flicks eyes wide to Meredith then to Nick and on to Cookey and Mo Mo. Slowly he reaches down to lift his assault rifle. Nick copies the motion. Cookey stands from the chair and moves the few feet to collect his and the air pierces with a hundred and more voices of the undead screaming a deathly howl into the air. Feet drumming on the ground and the place is alive with noise.

  ‘STAND TO…’

  ‘Dave,’ Blowers whispers and even from this great distance the sound of his voice carries faint but clear.

  Seconds it takes to check magazines, pull bolts back and make ready, seconds more to cross the floor to the door and out into the hallway and in that time the square is filled and already they pour through the still open door at the bottom of the stairs.

  Sixteen

  A four sided village square. Four rows of buildings of equal length and height. Three are rows of cottages. One is a row of shops with flats above. Behind them are countryside gardens divided by hedges. Long and narrow three of the rows back onto the open countryside that envelopes the village. The rear of the fourth backs onto the village and the clusters of houses and winding streets.

  A half mile from the square they divided and move seamlessly to gain the correct angles of attack. The main force to be sent into the middle where they can push out to drive the team into the rear gardens. Other forces are sent to the rears, ready to meet them on the egress.