The Undead Day Seventeen

by RR Haywood

  Cookey for his part glowers with consuming passion to slice and protect his mates. Stabbing deep into the neck and his thumb drives in to pop an eye. He bites, punches, kicks and gouges and the laughing lad is serious in his business. They are dirty so he fights dirty.

  The initial rush abates and they do fall to reform back to back. Encircled and flanked on all sides and they know, deep in their hearts they know that without the combined strength of the team, without the axes and without the passion of Mr Howie to lead they will die here. This is the end.

  Meredith senses it. She knows they are too many. The pack is reduced and split but that doesn't mean the fight ends. It means you fight harder. So she does. She gets faster. Ragging and biting until her mouth drips blood and her paws are coated in the fluids of the fallen.

  Engulfed. Encircled. Four men and one dog against a foe that numbers so many. They give losses but not enough and on the seventeenth day since the outbreak started, they prepare to die.

  Tiring now. Arms growing heavier and the roars they gave become grunts of exertion but the other side show no sign of weakening. They don’t regret it. As long as Mr Howie survives then the chance to fix this remains and for that chance they will fight to the last.

  A screech joins the noise of the fight. More join in. Wild screeches that are fresh and wild.

  Meredith gains the first view and takes it in within a split second before she goes back to the killing.

  Blowers snatches a glance and blinks but there isn’t time to do anything other than kill the thing in front of him and then the next one and the next one. One by one the lads see the source of the screeching.

  Multi-coloured figures that pour from the house. Bulky with leg guards, arm guards and helmets with face plates worn. Thick gloves on their hands and they are led from the front with the leader lifting the weapon into the air with a screech that tells those four lads they have help coming.

  A solid line of bulky bodies that race with voices howling as they charge into the fight. The infection spots the new threat and sends host bodies to intercept.

  The new attackers are prepared and suddenly they run low with their hockey sticks held ready. The first undead aims for the middle to take the leader who waits until the last second before deftly side stepping past and hammering a blow into the neck with the curved part of the hockey stick. The blades fitted to the stick slice the skin open and it drops bleeding out.

  The air glints from the sunlight reflected of the blades attached down the shafts and curves of the sticks. Faceless fighters hidden behind masks and the protective goal clothing gives them a confidence to get close.

  Into the fray now. Sticks striking with unbelievable power. The speed they display is stunning. Years of training to run flat out then stop and spin on the spot. Never losing balance, never overstretching.

  With fresh energy Blowers leads his team out to fight harder. The instant threat of death they faced now abates and they can fight on. They can inflict losses and reduce the numbers that could harm Mr Howie and the others.

  The hockey players run deep into the opposing team and use the curved hook to trip and snag the ankles so they can be driven down and a killing blow delivered. They are not natural killers and the first one is taken down by a wild charge of a heavy male. Pummelled and killed within seconds but the others fight on. Another player goes down but the kills they give are worth the losses.

  The players heard the wires being pulled as those wires in the forest were connected to longer wires that stretched all the way to the house. With the warning heard they scrambled to gather and wait quietly until the strange looking four young men came from the trees. They tracked their movements as they reached the front of the house and heard the conversations taking place with eyebrows raised as they discussed Dominos pizza. They watched and heard them enter the house and drink water. They heard the discipline and respect within their speaking and mannerisms. Then, as they became aware of the infected coming, they chose to go out and fight and thereby protect the unseen and unknown people within the house. That was honour and honour was a thing that had to be worked to achieve.

  ‘Suit up,’ Charlie said after a brief discussion and a vote held. Charlie was the leader and on Charlie they formed to be led out and join the fight.

  The adapted hockey sticks worked well. Hockey is a violent, aggression led tactical team sport using a long stick and a high level of fitness to drive a solid object at the opponent’s goal that was protected by someone wearing highly developed clothing and equipment designed to withstand the most fearsome of strikes.

  Hard fighting. Dirty fighting. Blood spilt and bodies ruined. Players killed but slowly the tide of battle is turned and the numbers thinned out.

  The lads feel it. They see it. Meredith detects the enemy are fewer. Nick breaks free from the group and snatches a fallen hockey stick up. A range weapon like an axe and he relishes the chance to fight like he was shown. Battering and slicing now and the kills he gains double in rate and speed.

  ‘BLOWERS,’ Nick hooks another on the tip of his toes and flicks it high for Blowers to snatch and wield.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Blowers grins evilly and steps out to increase his range of attack. Cookey casts about and spots a player running towards him. The player bends to snatch a stick up and passes it over quickly.

  Cookey nods, takes the weapon, drops his knife and charges out. Mo Mo takes Cookey’s fallen knife and using two he slashes and cuts deep with a wild snarling grimace etched onto his face.

  Many down to a few but still they charge and charge hard. The lads dance out to dodge and hack. The remaining players work hard to attack. Running through the ranks of undead as they snag ankles and hack legs to inflict deep wounds that drop the infected to the ground.

  Then it’s over and the ground is awash with a sea of dead bodies that bleed and fill the air with the metallic tang of blood. Blowers hacks down at his last one and staggers back with his chest heaving.

  Nick already swaying amidst a mound of broken bodies. Cookey has two coming and makes light work with vicious strikes left and right as he weaves round and through them.

  Mo Mo runs past his last one then stops to vault high onto its back and he drives the points down into the neck and lets his body fall with the corpse. On his feet and his chest heaves but the fire still blazes in his eyes as he scours for more to kill.

  The players slow down and work through the crawlers to finish them off with nasty strikes down into throats.

  Meredith pants with blood pouring from her mouth. Not her blood but the blood she took from them. Her coat matted and glistening and she paces like the wolf from crawler to crawler and ends them with a snarl and a bite. Her pack have survived. This pack. This small pack took the fight and won. She looks round to Blowers to Cookey to Nick to Mo Mo. They still stand and they still live.

  The four stand breathing hard with filthy faces and hands covered in blood and gore. Arms coated in grime. Eyes stinging from sweat and mouths parched so dry they can’t spit.

  ‘We,’ Blowers coughs to clear his throat, ‘we gotta go back now…’ his words cut off as Charlie walks through the devastation and finds four hard faces looking over with an intense ferocity.

  Nick inclines his head, too tired to speak but offering thanks all the same. Cookey lifts a tired hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ Blowers says hoarsely.

  The hockey player says something but the voice that comes back is as gruff and thirsty as his own and the words are lost and Charlie stares through the mesh grid at the blank faces.

  The gloves come off first. Tugged and eased until the fingers can waggle in the soothing air so many degrees cooler than inside the padded material. The helmet is next but the fingers are sweaty and can’t grasp the buckle under the chin. Charlie huffs and drops the hockey stick cursing muffled at the slippery clasp.

  ‘Want a hand, mate?’ Cookey asks at watching the man floundering to get the helmet off. He gets a thumbs up and the arms drop
to the sides as Cookey walks over, ‘tilt your head back…done it…’

  ‘Thanks,’ the hoarse voice says.

  ‘Cheers for the help, mate,’ Cookey says and smiles tiredly at the sweat soaked hands slipping over the smooth sides of the helmet, ‘here,’ he motions for the head to drop and grasps the sides, ‘I’ll hold it you pull back.’

  Charlie steps back and finally gets free of the helmet. Having never played in goal the equipment is strange and foreign.

  ‘Oh that’s better,’ she stands straight and pushes her fingers into her long brown hair to ease it away from her face, ‘so hot in that,’ she says and coughs loudly to clear her dry throat, ‘thanks for that,’ she says to a stunned Cookey and three more equally stunned young men stood behind him, ‘I’m Charlie.’

  Twenty-Three

  This has happened before. The surreal awareness that comes when your body and mind sink into the belief that these are your last few seconds of life. Everything becomes so clear, like my vision has sudden and incredible clarity.

  In the bathroom and I look round at the sodden floor and the water spraying from the burst pipe that glints and reflects the particles of sunlight coming through the window. Like a waterfall in a beautiful forest glade. The smashed up shower cubicle, by contrast, is jagged and full of right angles. The dead body of the huge infected man that ragged me senseless just looks like wet organic material. His bald head so round and smooth and the blood all washed away. The walls are soaked with rivers of water that stream down in never ending races to join the puddles at the bottom. The thick wooden door is being inched open by the weight of those behind it in a surging rhythm that makes me think of old castle invaders using a log to batter down the portcullis.

  The absurd sight of our feet almost makes me chuckle. My right foot at the bottom then her left foot then my left foot then her right foot. Her feet are a lot smaller than mine so it just looks funny. Like two people are standing on the door and having a conversation in some weird position. She does have nice legs though. Very shapely. Not thin but muscled nicely and I know it’s her strong thighs keeping them out as my legs have become weaker by the second.

  Other senses come to life. Every noise is separated and uniquely distinct. A snarl from a female outside, sort of lighter pitched and feminine. A much deeper bass growl. A strange scratching noise that must come from nails raking at the door. The shuffle of feet outside. The wheezing breaths they take and the grunts of exertion. Bangs and thumps. Marcy’s rapid breathing as she gulps at the air in terror of the situation, in pain at our positions and from the focus needed to keep her legs locked out.

  I can see every strand of her hair. It looks black when you glance at it but it’s not black. Dark brown but with lighter strands. The wet strands hang down her shoulders and neck. The warmth of her body is there too. I can feel it. I can feel the breath exhaled by her on my cheek. Her eyes are closed and she looks serene with golden tanned skin and dusky pink full lips.

  Her right arm stretches over me. Protective and reassuring. I’m wet but warm and held in an enveloping womb-like embrace. Her left hand clings to mine that clutches the pistol. Like being in the womb I know something bad is coming and I don’t want to go. I want to stay here. Warm, wet and safe.

  The thumb of my left hand strokes her cheek, smudging the grime and water and I can’t help but let it drift down to her mouth with a sudden desire to feel the softness of her lips. So gently I touch, so gently I feel. Her eyes squeeze tighter closed and she shifts position trying to be closer to me. Fear on her face, pain too but the touch reassures her. She opens her eyes, so red and bloodshot but not so bad to look at now and not as bad as they were before. Her pupils retract from going dark to light. Dishpans that become pinpricks. She swallows and I can feel the movement of her throat on my hand holding the gun. The tip of her tongue flicks out to wet the middle of her lips and her breath quavers with a tremble that hurts me more than anything else.

  What she did was beyond awful. The death she gave. The torture and agony that was given with pleasure. The hunting and seeking those so terrified they begged and wept for mercy. But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t this person. It was the thing inside. The infection that was given to her by Darren. I can feel the terror she must have felt at being taken by him. The pure heart stopping horror at being bitten and knowing she will die and come back and all the time being held by a crazed strange man. Priests give absolution but there is no absolution to be given for she is not the sinner. I cannot give her absolution or forgiveness. I cannot take the pain away or make this better, but I can give some small comfort. I move closer with the edge of my thumb under her chin that tilts her head up a fraction of an inch. She blinks in surprise and the breath catches in her throat. Yearning eyes that seek peace, that this is another foul trick to be snatched away by a harsh comment designed to hurt her soul in the last few seconds of her life. Her eyes widen and a tear falls from the corner.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ I whisper and my lips touch hers. Instantly she responds, pushing up and into me as though desperate for the sanctity of the touch of another human being showing love and being hungry for a sensation other than pain or deep regret. Everything feels okay now. We’re safe and not here. Our lips stay touching in an eternal kiss and the second that contact was made I knew I had wanted to kiss her since the first time I saw her. No Lani. No infected undead. No death or pain but a simple kiss and one given with love.

  My tongue darts out to touch her lips. An act done to show I do not fear being infected by her and I am not appalled by her or the person she is. But more than that, I do it because I want to, because I need to. Tighter still she holds me and our tongues meet in the most erotic kiss I have ever known and it soars my heart into heaven and makes me want life. This. This is the thing we yearn for. This is the reason for living and being. For this feeling now. To be with someone you love and care for. To feel that thrill of contact and knowing the other person shares with you as you share with them.

  It strengthens me. It gives me hope but more than that it gives me the purity of thought that I want Cookey, Blowers, Nick and Mo Mo to have this feeling. I want Clarence to feel peace of mind and for Paula and Roy to live on. I have tasted this and had this. They must have this. Our kind must have this. The kiss goes on and it floods me with energy and purpose. The good of it seeps into my heart while the sadness of the future tells me what is destined if this ends now. Like in the dream when Marcy kissed me and made me go back to fight in the munitions factory. Her. Marcy. That connection is this. That she gives me hope because she did the foulest of deeds yet no longer does she desire those acts but seeks to amend the wrongs and only through me can they be amended. Only through us. Through the team. The few that have come together to make a stand and defy that which seeks to eradicate us.

  My legs stiffen. My body stiffens. My feet planted on the door and the rigidity of my body forces the power from my shoulder wedged into the toilet down to those feet. She stiffens too with the same power. Our eyes snap open while we kiss and hold that kiss. Forcing our bodies to go strong with every nerve and sinew straining to do what must be done. Not one can do this. Not one can achieve this. Two can do this. A combined strength that works in the harmony given by the kiss we share. A circle formed from my feet, up my legs through my back and through my mouth and into her body and down to her feet and when our tongues meet so soft and gentle so that power grows and that door is pushed away and against the infected.

  Then it hits. The realisation that the team haven’t come because they’ve been unable to come. Dave hasn’t come because he’d know to stay with them if they were in danger and the risk must be real and immediate to keep him away from me. Gunshots in the distance. Sustained bursts of fire and single shots taken. More further away. Multiple weapons being fired. The Saxon is in the middle and we’ve each only got the magazines in our pockets and no hand weapons.

  It happens without conscious thought or planning. On my feet with the pistol in
one hand while I wrench the fucking door open and face the beasts while the cleanest, purist, most sterile form of rage I have ever known pulses through my body. I meet them coming through. I meet them head on with the pistol firing into brains that burst apart with grey matter spraying out. Everything slows. I pick the shots. The hallway beyond the bathroom door is narrow and only a few could fit there and I blast them away faster than they can charge in towards me.

  Marcy screaming. Gunshots. Howls and snarls and my own voice roaring.

  Fear me. Fear what I am. Fear what I can do to you. I fight for Marcy. I fight for my friends so they may experience what I just did. So they may savour the love of a person that loves them. I fight for Dave who stays with the team and ignores every instinct in his head to turn and run to me.

  The pistol empties. I cast it aside and drop down to pick the knife up and as I rise I surge out and into them with the point driving up through a throat. I stab and stab until the neck is flapping ragged skin that pours blood. I stab one to the right while my left hand draws the one on the left into me so I can sink my teeth into the side of his neck. I bite deep and feel the gushing blood pumping out, spraying me in hot metallic crimson arterial blood. He goes down and I twist the knife in the neck of the other one before yanking it clear. A boot to the chest of one reaching the top of the stairs and she goes flying back to crash into those behind.

  It’s not enough. I need more. I want more. I launch myself from the top step and sail down into them and the darkness of my eyes makes them wilt and stagger back.

  Frenzied stabbing. Biting and clawing. I hack at anything near me with such speed that it makes them feel as slow as they were in the daytime when this first began. They fear me. They wilt back and I can see the conflict of the urges given to them by the infection inside. They attack but wilt. They flay out but are killed in a dirty close quarters fight that has entrails and body parts falling with ease. I get bit, punched, kicked, gouged and shoved but what I give back is worse.