The Undead Day Seventeen

by RR Haywood

  ‘I’ll use yours if you don’t stop yelling at me.’

  ‘You will not.’

  ‘I bloody will,’ I stand up with a wince.

  ‘Really,’ she stands to glare at me, ‘you will not.’

  ‘Yours is clean,’ I point out, ‘because I was out there fighting to save you and…’

  ‘I was inside fighting the ones you left while you were outside pissing about.’

  ‘Oh the children? Sorry I left you a small child to fend off.’

  ‘Please clean your chin, I can’t look at you,’ she turns away in disgust.

  ‘Give me your clean top then.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Let me use the back, that’s wet and clean…’

  ‘You are not wiping your shit on my top.’

  ‘Jimmy Carrs shit not mine…’

  We both stop to stare at the sound of hooves drumming across the ground and the sight of the horse appearing at the end of the row of fences. A strangled yell coming from the rider clinging onto the reins and a look of pure panic on his face. They thunder past heading further into the meadow and the thicket of trees at the far end.

  Silence between us. Not a word uttered. I cough then cough again when she doesn't say anything.

  ‘Horse,’ I say, ‘that was a horse.’

  ‘I saw it,’ she replies stiffly.

  ‘Yep, a horse…so?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Apologise then.’

  ‘Yeah right. I’m a woman, Howie. I don’t do apologies.’

  ‘Oh you…’

  ‘What?’ She smiles a dazzling grin, ‘what was that honey?’

  ‘Don’t you honey me.’

  ‘There there,’ she smiles sweetly, ‘wipe the shit off your chin and we can move along.’

  ‘Fine,’ I tug my filthy top off and use the back to scrub at the drying faeces on my face as the first child drops down from the fence. We both start running. The killers of hundreds that have done the most terrible things since this began and we flee from a few children after getting the thought lodged into our minds that they’re real children.

  ‘Fuck!’ I cry out as more undead drop from the backs of the fences we’re alongside off. Forced to veer off into the meadow we run with me holding my filthy top and Marcy clutching the shit smeared knife, ‘give me the knife,’ I hold my hand out and take the hilt from her while risking a glance backwards. Still loads of them and they show no signs of slowing down. The children are at the front, running flat out with little arms pumping furiously and remarkably serious expressions on their faces. I trip, snagging the tip of my toes on a hole in the hard compacted earth. With a yelp I go down hard with the knife flying off to be lost in the long grass.

  She drops back, gripping my hand to tug me up onto my feet. No time to go for the knife so we run with feet lifting higher than normal to avoid the dips and rises of the rough ground. Taxing and hard work and we gasp for air as the sound of drumming comes from the left side and the horse bursting from the thicket of trees.

  The speed of the beast covers the ground in seconds. The rider still clearly having no hope of controlling the horses direction or speed but hanging on with the same terrified look. A slight variance of direction and the horse swishes past us with the man on the back screaming out. The noise of bodies being slammed into comes from behind. We both turn and see the children we were so afraid of getting flung and trampled as the horse goes straight through them and runs on towards the square.

  We need the same direction but if we change now the horde behind will cut us off. With no choice we run on, hoping to drawn them out and away from the buildings enough so we can turn and somehow get back to the Saxon.

  The change comes quickly. The sunlight fades into shade and so abruptly I cast my eyes up to see the unnoticed thick clouds filling the sky. Dark and grey. Loaded and ready to open.

  ‘Rain,’ I get the word out but Marcy focusses on running, straining from the hard ground, the heat and the energy sapping constant action.

  The first few drops are gorgeous. Fat dollops of water that hit the top of my head and provide an instant cooling effect. More follow until a light shower works to soothe the heat in our faces. Perfect and timed just right to give us the boost we need. Legs working hard, burning from the pain of having to hold that door shut but the rain gives us enough to keep going. Then it gets harder. Falling heavier and the view in front becomes a blur of grey and a billion drops of water spatter the ground on all sides.

  We’re rinsed clean and I use my hands to rub my face as we sprint on. Open mouths turned up and mine fills quickly to quench my parched mouth and throat. It tastes perfect. Wondrously clean and fresh, warm but cooler than the air we’ve been used to.

  Still it gets heavier. A shower into a downpour into an all-out deluge from the heavens above. The compacted earth can’t keep up and soon the puddles form which make the going even harder. Our view is restricted to a few feet ahead at best. Marcy gasps with water pouring from the point of her chin. I blink and wipe my eyes trying to keep them clear. A deluge that increases second by second. The noise becomes so loud. A cacophony of drums beating all around us.

  Water being kicked up by our feet and it makes the running harder, more effort is needed on each lift of each foot with an increase of friction and weight. Blinding rain that hammers down to sting our heads and exposed skin. A monsoon of a tropical storm and streams are formed in the dips of the ground. We wade through, tripping and slipping. I go down first and get coated in mud. Marcy helps me up and within seconds she slips and lands heavy. We cling to each other, guiding and pulling on. Glances back but nothing to be seen in the few feet of vision we have. They won’t stop. This rain won’t slow them down but it does slow us down.

  The horse came from the left and went on to the right towards the square. I can hope we’ve stayed in a forward straight direction and with the opportunity of not being seen I guide Marcy on a hard right angle.

  All direction is lost from the lack of features to use to gain a bearing. No sounds other than the rain and our feet splodging through the increasingly slippery mud.

  Holding hands and I can feel the energy draining from her. Feet landing heavily. Her head drooping and the limpness of her arm all point to exhaustion and fatigue.

  ‘Keep going,’ I urge her on. She nods and stays silent but I can see the determination in her face.

  So we run. We run on slowly and with every stride now an effort in focus and purpose and all we can do is hope we find the square before they find us.

  Twenty-Four

  Paula in front with Roy right behind her, urging her to keep going. Clarence behind them forcing Reginald to stay the pace and Dave bringing up the rear. Intensely worried but the hordes converging from all three sides behind them force them to run. Ammunition dangerously low. No hand weapons other than the knives held by Dave. Reginald wheezing from the effort. Roy glancing back in worry at the thick lines forcing then onwards. Clarence ignoring his own pain to reach out a steadying hand to Reginald at his side.

  Dave calculates and plans. Always planning. Always thinking. He can stop and fight but they’ll pour past him to keep driving the others away from Mr Howie. If he knew they would focus on him he would turn back. The gunfire in the distance ahead is the unmistakable sound of SA80 assault rifles being fired on single shot. Four of them and the gaps between each shot tell him they are picking their targets with care. That also means the lads are facing a big group and are down to the last of their ammunition.

  A hope that he would hear the GPMG coming from the square that would signify Mr Howie getting to the Saxon. Nothing. Just the snarling fury of the things chasing them away. That’s what they’re doing. Chasing. Making them flee. Dave understands a tactical withdrawal and understands a strategy of drawing the enemy to an advantage point but running away? Dave doesn’t run away. Dave runs towards. But he can’t run towards so he has to run away. Not right. Not right at all.

&nb
sp; The village is close and from the field they crash through a hedge onto a lane and find instant relief from a hardtop to run along. Speed can be gained and they push on, working into the shade given by the tree tops overhead. Sweat pouring down all but one face. Dave detects the humidity increasing and first looks up at the sky then back at the sound of gunfire coming from the square. His head cocks at the noise, eyes as sharp as Meredith.

  ‘What’s that?’ Clarence looks back with the same expression.

  ‘Colt M4 Carbine,’ Dave says, ‘with a folding stock.’

  ‘How the hell can you tell if…never mind…who’s firing it?’

  ‘I don’t…’

  ‘It was a rhetorical question, Dave.’

  ‘Actually,’ Reginald wheezes, ‘a rhetorical question is a figure of speech used in the manner of asking a question but one done to enforce a point rather than to actually get an answer.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘You asked a question,’ Reginald gasps for air between words, ‘not a rhetorical question but just a question and if I may say so a rather stupid question.’

  ‘Focus on running,’ Clarence snaps.

  A new weapon being fired. An American weapon issued to American troops but the M4 carbine with a folding stock is not the average issue weapon for American soldiers. A weapon like that is issued to Special Forces, or at least it was until they upgraded and started using a wider range of tactical weapons. That would mean the firer is not a current serving US Special Forces but someone who managed to obtain a weapon. He listens to the fire rate. Single shots then a sustained burst followed by sporadic bursts, untimed, rushed and not belonging to any trained discipline.

  The anxiety increases and a desperate urge to turn round and run back but the horde behind them are crashing through the hedge now and far too great in number.

  The lane winds through the village and past the local pub and Roy takes the same route as the one used by the lads earlier. Sharp turns into avenues and wide paths.

  A worried glance from Clarence at Reginald‘s face that has gone from bright red to blotchy and pale. A sign that fatigue is threatening to drop him any second. They have to get somewhere, find something or hide. The desperation increases. Legs burning and chests heaving for air. The sound of the infected behind only serves to tell them what will happen if they stop or slow down.

  ‘Keep going,’ Clarence’s hand shoots out to guide the faltering steps.

  ‘I…’

  ‘You can and you will,’ Clarence injects force into his voice, ‘you will run or they will tear you apart in seconds and the rest of us too.’

  Reginald shoots a terrified look up at the broad glaring face of Clarence. The pain is indescribable but the indignity is worse. Being forced to get hot and sweaty when he is a man of learning and culture, not a common thug who goes galloping around streets being chased.

  Into another lane and they flow down with ragged breaths and heavy feet pounding the surface.

  ‘Ahead,’ Roy gets to the bend and spots the first dead bodies. Dave sprints through ready to fight and instantly spots the tell-tale signs of gunshots wounds. Good strikes and the lads aim is getting better. Heads blown apart and far fewer missed shoulder and torso shots. He spots the fallen tree and instantly feels a sense of pride at Blowers finding a hard cover firing position. Spent shells litter the ground, a full magazine fired by each lad and a pile of half-eaten puke already drying out. He spots beans and ravioli and knows they took too much food on without consideration of the consequences. A mental note to give advice on the size of meals to be taken.

  The others catch up and wheeze their way round the tree before they keep plodding on down the road and past the houses. It gets worse. Drained and exhausted and every glance back shows they are inching closer. Prickles of fear in Clarence and Roy. Paula too focussed on running and keeping moving to think anything. Reginald missing Marcy. Dave fretting about Mr Howie. On they go. Stitches form. Chests tighten. They reach a junction and take the main road. The first drops of rain fall as every pair of eyes flicks down to a single magazine lying on the tarmac.

  Twenty-Five

  Silence only broken by the sound of tearing flesh as Meredith tugs at the arm of the dead body.

  A second hockey player pulls her helmet off to reveal another mane of long hair tumbling free. A third follows suit with slender fingers that sweep the loose strands free from her forehead. The fourth and last stands watching Meredith tugging backwards with her arse in the air and her mouth clamped on the arm that finally breaks free with strands of skin stretching out like spaghetti and instantly heaves to bend over and puke at the sight. A strangled noise and she works with frantic movements to undo the clasp before the inside of the helmet fills with vomit. It gets thrown aside and she drops to puke again as Meredith detaches the arm and wanders over holding the limb to show the kneeling woman.

  Cookey blinks and stares at Charlie. Nick grins, chuckling quietly with a slow shake of his head as Blowers and Mo Mo copy Cookey and just stare.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Charlie bends slightly forward with a look of worry.

  ‘Huh?’ Cookey bleats.

  Charlie lifts her eyebrows and looks to the others. One slightly smaller with darker skin and younger in years, she heard them call him Mo. Nick, the one chuckling and Blowers their leader staring as dumbly as Cookey.

  Cookey finally pulls his gaze away to look at the other two standing hockey players but not seeing the fourth kneeling over to vomit, ‘girls,’ he says, ‘oh my god…oh my actual fucking god…an actual hockey team…like…like an actual girls hockey team…’ his mind in overdrive and gibbering in wonder, blinking and shuffling on the spot, ‘an actual girls hockey team….’ He repeats and shakes his head, ‘here,’ he says quickly, ‘have you got a coach driver called Bert?’

  ‘Bert?’ Charlie asks as Nick bursts out with a snort of laughter, ‘there was a coach driver but I don’t know his name,’ Charlie says with a slight smile at the absurd and surreal nature of the situation. Standing amidst a sea of broken bodies, blood and gore everywhere.

  ‘Are you here looking for our coach driver?’ a confused Charlie asks, ‘I thought you just wanted water…’

  ‘He wanted Bert,’ Cookey points quickly at Blowers.

  ‘No,’ Blowers sighs, ‘I did not want Bert.’

  ‘Er, he left on the first night,’ Charlie says softly, ‘he er, he never came back. I am so sorry if he was your father or…’

  ‘Oh poor Blowers,’ Cookey smirks, ‘you’ve missed Bert.’

  ‘Such a dick,’ Blowers groans, ‘we don’t want the coach driver or anyone called Bert.’

  ‘But he said you were looking for Bert,’ Charlie says pointing at Cookey.

  ‘Poor Bert,’ Cookey says.

  ‘There was no Bert!’ Blowers snaps as Nick wipes the tears from his face.

  ‘Blinky,’ Charlie calls out to the kneeling girl still heaving her guts up, ‘what was the coach driver called?’

  ‘Oh my god,’ Blowers groans again, ‘Cookey you are such a twat.’

  ‘He was Polish,’ the kneeling girl says between heaves, ‘Mario or Marius? Something…’ she cuts off to puke again.

  ‘Oh he was wasn’t he,’ Charlie says, ‘yes, yes he was Polish. Lovely man though, er…so no, we haven’t seen Bert.’

  ‘There was no Bert,’ Blowers repeats.

  ‘No, that’s right we never had a Bert,’ Charlie confirms, ‘unless he was a groundsman or…’

  ‘Groundsman Bert,’ Cookey laughs, ‘will that do you, Blowers?’

  ‘Blinky,’ Charlie calls out again, ‘do you know the names of any of the groundsmen?’

  ‘No I…’ Blinky heaves a final effort and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, ‘don’t think so,’ she says with a belch and stands up, ‘did you know your dog has an arm in his mouth?’

  ‘It’s a her,’ Nick says with an effort to stop laughing, ‘and yeah she does that.’

&nb
sp; ‘Does what?’

  ‘Er…gets arms,’ Nick says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? I don’t know,’ Nick says with the smile frozen on his face.

  ‘Bit strange isn’t it,’ Blinky states, red haired with a blaze of freckles across her nose and a glare only broken by the constant blinking.

  ‘Blinky,’ Charlie says, ‘don’t be rude. So no chaps, sorry we don’t know anyone called Bert. There might be some records in the main office or something if that helps?’

  ‘Chaps?’ Cookey grins with delight, ‘so are you a hockey team then?’

  Charlie stares, Blinky blinks. Mo Mo shakes his head and Nick snorts a snort of laughter again while Blowers groans. The first fat dollop of rain falls from the sky to land with a plonk on Charlie’s helmet on the ground.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Blowers steps forward, ‘he’s got issues. I’m Blowers, that’s…’

  ‘Cookey,’ Charlie points to Cookey, ‘Nick…Mo and I think I heard them call you Blowers?’

  Blowers shows surprise then glances back to the house as the rain starts drumming on the ground, ‘you heard us then?’

  Charlie nods, ‘we heard you coming through the forest…’

  ‘Those bloody cans,’ Blowers says quickly, ‘was that you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlie says with a firm nod, ‘our early detection warning system. Blinky had the idea.’

  ‘Oh,’ Blowers says, ‘er…good warning system.’

  ‘Gonna punch ‘em straight in the chops,’ Cookey adopts a low gruff tone speaking into his hand.

  ‘Pardon?’ Charlie asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ Cookey says innocently, ‘it’s raining,’ he adds knowledgably at the now heavy rain coming down.

  Heavy rain sheets from the grey clouds and for a second all else is forgotten as faces are turned up to feel the relief given. Refreshing cooling water that rinses the sweat and gore. Soaking hair, cleansing faces, quenching thirst. Only Blinky doesn't look up but stares fixed at the dog trotting about with the arm in her mouth.

  Charlie sighs heavily. Her long brown hair glistens down her back and the tone of her skin hints at a mixed ethnicity background. An open pleasant face and hazel eyes that stay closed to let the rain cascade down her face. An effect not lost on Cookey who stares mesmerised until spotting the accusing glare from Blinky then quickly looks away.