by RR Haywood
So they run. Shepherded and forced and with pain in their hearts and legs they run.
Twenty-Two
‘Fucktown Sports Academy,’ Cookey reads the sign.
From the tree line they worked slowly down the bank and into the grounds skirting the old mansion house until reaching the front of the building.
‘Doesn't actually say that,’ Blowers says reading the sign then looking around in a slow turning circle.
‘Finkton Sports Academy,’ Nick reads the words slowly, ‘is that right? Finkton?’
‘Yep,’ Blowers says.
‘Anyone for tennis?’ Cookey asks, ‘or football, or rugby, or netball or hockey or badminton or table tennis…table tennis? What the fuck is table tennis doing on there?’
‘It’s a sport,’ Nick says walking a few steps further down the driveway to stare back towards the wide entrance and the road beyond.
‘Are you suggesting ping pong is a sport?’ Cookey asks.
‘Yeah I am suggestering it.’
‘Suggestering? That’s not a word like ping pong isn’t a sport…they might as well put dominos on here.’
‘Dominos? Have they got a Dominos?’
‘Not the pizza place you dick, the game…’
‘Well my suggestion,’ Blowers interrupts them, ‘is we get inside, get some water and then head back to the others.’
‘I suggest that is a good plan,’ Cookey says.
‘I suggest we do that,’ Nick says.
‘The suggestion is a good one,’ Mo Mo joins in.
‘Blowers makes a good suggesterer,’ Cookey says.
‘I am the nominated suggestee,’ Blowers says almost absent minded as he scans the grounds and turns slowly back to face the building. ‘Okay, I’ll call out…try and look non-threatening,’ Blowers makes a point of lowering his rifle while lifting his chin, ‘HELLO? ANYONE HOME?’
They wait quietly in the near silence only broken by the odd insect buzzing past, ‘HELLO?’ Blowers calls again, ‘WE’RE NOT A THREAT…WE JUST…’
‘Shush,’ Nick says urgently, ‘what if they’re near here…’
‘Fuck good point mate,’ Blowers winces at the lack of thought.
‘Let’s go in,’ Cookey leads off towards the entrance. A set of wide double wooden front doors complete with pinned notices and posters of the sports training on offer. ‘Open,’ he pushes one door and waits while it swings in.
‘Go in,’ Blowers says from the rear.
‘Hello?’ Cookey calls out, not loud but clear enough to announce their arrival, his tone easy and gentle, ‘we’re not a threat…we just need some water…can we get a drink please?’
They gather in the cool lobby feeling the relief of the shade. High vaulted with doors leading off and a wide staircase on the right side. Notice boards set back into a reception area with lists and dates printed on.
‘Anyone here?’ Cookey calls out again, ‘really we mean no harm…we’re just thirsty and need a drink…do you mind if we get a drink and then go?’
‘Tell ‘em we’re with Mr Howie,’ Nick whispers.
‘We’re with Mr Howie from the fort,’ Cookey calls out, ‘we’re not bandits or anything like that.’
‘Bandits?’ Blowers asks, ‘fucking bandits?’
‘What? I just thought it?’
‘Don’t say bandits, we’re not highway men or bloody smugglers.’
‘S’what I said, we’re not bandits…well we’re not,’ Cookey motions to Nick and Mo Mo as Blowers starts to groan, ‘you are…’
‘Don’t start.’
‘What? I never said it.’
‘You’re going to say it.’
‘Nah I won’t.’
‘Oh thank fuck for that.’
‘Arse bandit.’
‘Such a twat!’
‘Well, I had to say it,’ Cookey says proudly.
‘Say we’re from the army,’ Nick urges.
‘Er…We’re from the army,’ Cookey calls out, ‘listen, we’ll just get some water and then go. Is that okay? Our dog is really thirsty too…so….thanks!’ He adds and shrugs at Blowers, ‘they don’t want to say anything.’
‘Fair enough,’ Blowers mutters, ‘would you speak to us?’
‘Not a fucking chance,’ Nick says. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’
They head off through the left doors into a large lounge area complete with sofas, bookcases and easy chairs. Tables adorn the sides with computers fixed atop with more signs indicating Wifi is accessible with a code from the instructors but restricted to fifteen minutes per person per evening.
Into a dining room laid like a school refectory with big tables designed to seat ten people so the students are forced to mingle and eat together. Rows of hooks on the sides and even more signs that muddy boots and shoes will be removed prior to eating.
‘Look,’ Mo Mo nods at the rows of yellow and red tabbards hanging from the hooks, each with a number and some with letters etched on them, ‘people here then.’
‘Kitchen must be down there,’ Blowers indicates the next set of doors.
Meredith runs ahead with her nose to the ground and her tail up and wagging. This is the den of the new pack. This is where they live. They are hiding because they are afraid of the new pack coming in. She wags her tail to show she is no threat.
They head through the next set of doors into the vast kitchen of stainless steel tables, sinks, cupboards and walk in fridges. Shelves stacked with pots and pans. Knives held to magnetic strips on the wall and each one numbered.
‘Smell that?’ Nick asks, ‘coffee, can you smell it?’
‘Yeah,’ Cookey says in a low voice, ‘someone been in here, oh my god…what’s that?’ He walks forward with his nose in the air, ‘wow, can you smell it? That’s bread…’
‘Yeah,’ Mo Mo joins him sniffing the air, ‘someone making bread…’
‘Old stove,’ Nick heads to the huge appliance recessed in the wall with a wide air filter above it, ‘fuel stove…wow haven’t seen one of these for years. You can run them on wood, oil…fucking anything that burns really…oh that bread smells nice.’
Blowers pulls a pan from the wall and pushes it under the cold tap to fill with water as Meredith snuffles through the kitchen. Cups are found and the lads gather to quench their thirst as the pan is put down for the dog to lap.
‘Mind out,’ Cookey gets to the tap and thrusts his head under the flow of cooling water, ‘oh man that’s nice,’ he rubs his hands through his hair and face then stands up to let the water drip down his neck and back. Mo Mo goes next, his own jet black hair glistening with the water. Blowers and Nick follow suit, rinsing off the sweat. Cup after cup is drank down to rid the taste of being sick and replenish the fluids lost.
Eyes flicking constantly to the oven and the tempting aroma of freshly baking bread, ‘imagine eating fresh bread,’ Nick says, ‘with butter.’
‘We can’t take it,’ Blowers says.
‘I’m not suggesting that,’ Nick says defensively, ‘I wouldn’t eat someone else’s bread, mate.’
‘Sorry,’ Blowers says with a dip of his head, ‘I didn’t need to say that.’
‘Mo Mo would,’ Nick says with a slow grin, ‘he’d pinch it.’ He looks to Mo Mo to make sure the joke is taken as intended and stops dead at the intense look on the younger lad’s face. ‘Mo? What’s up?’
Mo’s nostrils flare, his eyes narrow and the hair on the back of Nick’s hair prickles to stand on end. A low growl from Meredith who stares fixed towards the front of the house. All conversation stops and the water dripping from their sodden heads drips to land on the hard tiled floor.
‘Found us,’ Mo Mo whispers.
Blowers stares quickly to the oven and the signs of habitation. People living here. Surviving and trying their best to survive and the sensation of guilt at leading the undead to them ripples through his insides, ‘we can’t bring them in here,’ he rushes the words out, ‘ain’t fair…’
‘Agreed,’ C
ookey says following the same train of thought, ‘out the front then…so they see us yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ Blowers downs his water and lets the hardness of battle settle on his face. His own dark eyes nearly match the brooding gaze of Howie, thin pursed lips and a determination to the do the right thing, ‘that’s not our way,’ he murmurs and glances to Nick.
‘Not our way,’ Nick nods, ‘we’ll draw them away.’
‘Get four,’ Blowers looks past Nick to Mo Mo reaching out to the big blades held in place on the magnetic strip. Ranging in size from paring knives up to meat cleavers the size of which Lani would be proud to wield. The sight of it only hardens the resolve within the corporal of the team.
Mo Mo takes the four largest blades. High tensile steel with curved handles. One each and they’re handed round in an almost symbolic gesture that the fighting will be done now. They’ve led the horde from the square and could keep running but then the horde will sweep through and kill whoever lives here, and anyone nice enough to make bread is nice enough to fight for.
‘Go,’ Blowers leads the way. Four young men with hard faces and determined steps that clutch their rifles and slide their newly acquired blades into their belts ready to be drawn and used. ‘Nick…when it comes to it…you and Mo go…me and Cookey will…’
‘Get fucked,’ Nick snaps.
‘We’re immune,’ Blowers snaps back, ‘it makes sense.’
‘He’s right, Nick,’ Cookey says without humour now, ‘you two get back to Mr Howie.’
‘Mo?’ Nick asks fuming from the suggestion, ‘fancy that? Running away while our mates get fucked over?’
‘No.’
‘Nick, I am ordering you to…’
‘I’ll always follow what you say but don’t ever fucking ask me that again,’ Nick says, ‘not ever…’
‘Nick!’ Cookey implores.
‘You came back for me in that fucking house…think of all the shit we been through and you asking me to fucking do one and run? Fuck off.’
Through the dining room into the lounge, angry words said with emotion and honest intent.
‘We alright?’ Nick asks with a hard glance to Blowers after a minutes of charged silence.
‘Yeah, mate,’ Blowers nods back, ‘had to ask.’
‘We stay together,’ Nick says, ‘team right.’
‘Team,’ Blowers says.
‘Team right?’ Nick says to Cookey.
‘Team,’ Cookey repeats it back. In the lobby they stand and already the distant howls drift on the heavy hot air through the open front doors.
‘Mo,’ Nick looks across, ‘team right?’
Mo Mo looks back, his soft brown eyes lingering on Nick then Cookey and finally Blowers. A sudden feeling of belonging, of being part of something and that bond between them extends to envelope him. In truth the invite has always been there, but now, with the loss of Jagger so heavy in his heart, he starts to understand what has kept them alive this long, ‘team,’ Mo Mo says softly, ‘yeah…yeah team…always.’ They’re all scared. He knows that now. The fear is real but that fear can be taken and turned into something else. An intrinsic instinct that knows what the right thing is. To hold that honour and know when to run but when to stand and fight. Mo smelled the bread baking and the house has the feeling of being lived in. People living here. It ain’t right that the infected should be brought in here but they have to keep them from going back to the square too. No choice then. They fight them outside to the last man standing.
‘Ready,’ Blowers looks to his small team and feels the burden of leadership solid on his shoulders. Nods come back. Hard eyes from killers that will not flee. ‘Pick your shots until the ammunition runs out…then we go back to back and fight out…let Meredith do what she can and hope to fuck we’re harder than they are.’
‘Fuck ‘em,’ Mo says, ‘we’ll win.’
All eyes snap to stare at him. Innocent words spoken but the lad has no idea of the effect or the history attached to those words, ‘what?’ Mo shrugs.
‘Move out,’ Blowers goes first. Solid strides that cross the threshold and pace out from the front of the house to the edge of the driveway. Snarls and howls permeate the air as the raging horde work up the main road towards the gate.
The others form a line either side and walk side by side up the driveway until they’re a decent distance from the house.
They drop down onto one knee and start pulling the last remaining magazines from pockets to lay ready to be taken up. Rifles are checked. Magazines ejected, tested and pushed back in. Bolts are drawn back. Single shots selected.
From end to end, Mo Mo, Cookey, Blowers and Nick with his hand resting gently on Meredith’s neck. She knows now to wait until she can attack. She growls. Warning the pack of the coming danger. She lifts her hackles to make herself bigger.
They breach the gate and there they are. Monstrous, fetid and charging with discipline. Lips pulled back to show teeth. Hands clawing into weapons. Heads fixed and staring. The bigger ones at the front to protect those behind and the slower pace has preserved their energy levels.
She gives voice and tells them who she is. She tells them this is her pack and the pack fight and they have to stop or they will die. She has killed them before and will kill them again. Stop. Go back. Do not come here. Do not attack us for we are pack and we will fight you to the end.
Snarls show. Blowers top lip lifts at one corner. Cookey’s right eye twitches as he lets the anger flood his system. Nick spits and glares cold and dispassionate. Mo Mo sees the things that killed his friend and he’ll be fucked if his new friends will die before he does. Five against many.
‘TAKE AIM,’ Blowers roars the order to show defiance and allow a vent for the wild energy pounding through his body.
Four rifles are raised. Nick lets go of Meredith but she waits now. She holds position next to the pack and she tells them the final warning is being given and that to follow this course of conduct will end their lives. They are things. They smell wrong. They move wrong. They tried to hurt her little one and for that she will never forgive them and never stop killing. Her head low. Eyes of a wolf. Teeth huge and gleaming white. Every muscle quivering in anticipation.
We are human, Blowers lets the thought whirl through his mind, we have discipline and command and we will go out in a show of respect to the things taught to us by Mr Howie, Dave, Clarence and the team. ‘ON MY COMMAND…WE WILL COMMENCE FIRING.’
Cookey feels the thrill of Blowers calling out the order. Showing the infection that despite the overwhelming mass of the enemy coming at them they retain order and focus.
‘FIRE.’
An order given. Structure and discipline and it serves to ease the tremble and focus the aim. The gunshots ring out loud and true as the first four bullets spin with deadly aim to whip through the bodies of those at the front. Each firer acknowledges the strike of the first round and adjusts tiny increments to aim better. Head shots are scored. One after the other. Some strike bodies or necks. Some miss but strike those behind. Some go straight through to kill two in one shot.
Structure and order is maintained. Four young men that fire with calm ruthless precision. Picking targets and plucking the shots. Picking another target and plucking the shot.
‘MAGAZINE,’ Blowers is the first to change and in seconds the procedure is done and the rifle brought back up.
‘MAGAZINE,’ Nick goes next.
Still they come. So many of them. Thick and charging the distance but not flat out. Energy being preserved. The infection can see they are alone. The infection knows where every member of the team is. These have no help coming. They are isolated. Divide and conquer. The dog will be slaughtered. These youths will be slaughtered and the losses inflicted by this group will end today.
‘LAST ONE,’ Blowers rams the last magazine up, slides the bolt, takes aim and makes every bullet count. He counts them off in his head. From thirty down to twenty down to ten. He snorts a dry laugh when only five shots
remain. Seventeen days of slaughtering them. Seventeen days of causing carnage and he wouldn’t change a second of it. Not for anything in the world. To die now is honourable and worthy. This horde is huge and every one brought down here is one less to go after the others.
Five. Four. Three. Two. Last bullet and with a grin he sights the head of a big hippie looking male and takes pleasure in seeing the skull burst apart. Rifle discarded. On his feet. Knife drawn and he waits with that top lip pulling back.
Cookey drops his rifle. On his feet. Knife drawn and he waits. Mo Mo discards. On his feet. Knife drawn and not an inch of fear is shown, only desire to be there now, to charge now, to fight now.
Nick. Rifle down. Up. Knife out. He looks across at the others and nods. They look back and nod. He turns to look down at Meredith, ‘go.’
She’s away. Bounding and unleashed. The warnings given and right behind her the pack charge with absolute hatred bursting through every pore of their bodies.
I warned you. I told you to go back. You paid no heed and now this is it. She leaps and those paws strike the chest, the neck extends, the teeth grip and she drops, rags and the death is given. She whips round and grabs an ankle to wrench the next one down so she can reach the throat.
Back to back was the order but that is forgotten as the bloodlust of battle takes over. Close and intimate without the range of axes to be used. Knives that stab and slice. Face to face with those that seek to end their kind.
Nick stabs into the chest and drives his forehead into the nose of the woman lunging at him. Heedless of the risk of blood transference for this is the time to fight like a bastard. He roars with the power of his strong arms that deliver the slices and stabs and the strong legs that drive him forward.
Mo Mo whips with incredible speed. Dancing left and right on the balls of his feet. Never staying in one place long enough to get caught. Slicing and driving the point into neck after neck. One drops. The next one drops. The third goes down.
Immune and Blowers was trained as a boxer so the knife is gripped in his right hand while his left punches out with solid blows that drive them back enough for the stab to be given. The pent up aggression unleashed and without realising it, without conscious thought given, he fights slowly towards Cookey as though the instinct to be near him dictates his actions.