The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  ‘Do we get in before it’s winched down?’ Cookey asks, looking between the RIB and the opening hatch.

  ‘No idea mate, we’ll figure something out in a minute,’ I reply as I reach for the radio on my belt, ‘Howie to Dave, you got anything yet?’

  ‘Dave to Mr Howie, not yet over.’

  ‘Howie to Dave, okay we want to be back in our fort before dark though. I don’t fancy spending the night on this ship, there could be loads of them left on here.’

  ‘Dave to Mr Howie understood out.’

  ‘There’s a scramble net here,’ Nick says, pulling a bundle of knitted ropes out from a locker in the ground, ‘we just roll this down and climb down it.’

  ‘Nice one mate, I think we’re just about ready.’ I walk over to the now open hatch and stand staring down at the almost perfectly flat surface of the sea. It looks so inviting and just ready to be plunged into. The sultry warm air makes it feel Mediterranean, almost tropical. Perfect holiday weather and just right for dozing on a beach reading a book and sipping a cold beer.

  ‘Looks beautiful,’ Lani says quietly from beside me. I glance over at her own sultry good looks, almost tropical in appearance with her long black hair and tanned skin.

  ‘Definitely,’ I reply and she smiles, keeping her gaze out to sea and not turning to look at me.

  ‘I meant the view,’ she says.

  ‘Me too,’ I laugh softly and turn away to see Nick lighting a smoke up, leaning against a wall and exhaling a soft cloud of smoke. He nods and offers me his packet, I nod back so he throws it over and I tap one out, taking my lighter from my pocket and igniting the end. Savouring the harshness of the smoke pulled down my throat. Cookey sits down on the edge of the RIB and rubs his face while Clarence moves round the room examining the Landrover’s and bicycles.

  ‘These take me back,’ his deep voice drifts over, ‘we used to use Landy’s all the time. Pity we can’t one with us.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll get it into the RIB mate,’ I reply, ‘but I’m sure Nick would have a go at driving the boat into the shore if you want.’

  ‘No thanks boss,’ Clarence appears round the front of the vehicle, grinning at Nick, ‘not after the last one eh?’

  ‘Ah, I’m really sorry about that,’ Nick grumbles, ‘I really don’t know what happened.’

  ‘Dave to Mr Howie,’ my radio bursts to life.

  ‘Go ahead over.’

  ‘We found the armoury, who needs a rifle?’

  ‘I think we all got one now from the new ones in the boxes, grab some spares though, do you need a hand?’

  ‘No there’s a trolley jack here, we’ll be back in five out.’

  ‘Okay mate.’

  We chat amiably for a few minutes until we hear a steady squeak coming from the end of the room, Dave and Blowers appear pushing a low trolley with one squeaking wheel, Blowers grinning like the devil himself and Dave looking as devoid of expression as ever.

  ‘Wot you grinning at Blowers?’ Cookey asks with a laugh.

  ‘Ta Daaa,’ Blowers pulls a cover from the trolley to reveal a long machine gun, the front lifted up on a tripod.

  ‘Very nice,’ Clarence steps over and hefts the General Purpose Machine Gun from the trolley, holding it one handed and instantly looking like a bald Rambo.

  ‘Suits you mate,’ I smile at him as Dave lifts a few heavy boxes of ammunition belts from the trolley.

  ‘You fucking beauty,’ Nick calls out as he scoots over to Clarence and starts examining the weapon.

  ‘It’s huge,’ Lani says with a shocked face, ‘is that the GP…thing you keep mentioning?’

  ‘GPMG, means General Purpose Machine Gun and is has proven to be one of our most effective weapons in the fight against the zombie invasion,’ Clarence explains.

  ‘So that’s better than these?’ Lani lifts her assault rifle and looks between the two.

  ‘That uses 5.56 rounds, this uses 7.62, bigger rounds, more firepower, greater range, it’s belt fed too which means less stoppage for magazine changes,’ Clarence replies.

  ‘They’re bloody good,’ Blowers adds.

  ‘Really bloody good,’ Nick grins, ‘I feel better now we’re tooled up properly again.’

  ‘I know what you mean mate, right let’s get out of here I don’t like this ship.’ We unload the trolley into the RIB, distributing the weight evenly. Dave and Blowers also found pistol magazines in the armoury and hand them round until we each equipped with a loaded pistol and spare magazines, an assault rifles and lots of spare magazines, a sawn off shotgun with hardly any shells, axes, meat cleavers and knives. Trousers tucked into boots, tight tops and we look like a nasty bunch of bastards ready to overthrow some small country.

  The RIB gets winched up, swung out and lowered down the side of the vessel until it plops onto the surface of the water. The scramble net is rolled down and we start to descend, going hand over hand until we reach the boat and balance precariously on the rubber skirt and hop onto the solid base. Dave is the last one down, and once on-board we detach the hooks from the winch and push the RIB away from the ship while Nick goes to the central column and gets the engine going.

  Minutes later and we’re steadily cruising away from the Navy supply ship, fully loaded with weapons and enjoying the wind blowing against our faces. Nick takes it steady, not wanting to risk the valuable cargo and heads us away from the mouth of Portsmouth harbour, moving along the coast towards our fort.

  Eleven

  Jagger moves quickly with his patrol stretched out behind him. Sixteen years old, of mixed race background and he was a switched on kid. Coming from a heart breaking background of abuse, neglect and poverty he took to the streets from an early age and did what it took to survive and get through the day. Now, with the security of the compound and his mates at his sides he feels a sense of belonging and loyalty. As crew chief he also feels responsible and has matured tenfold just within the last few days. Respected and well-liked he intends to stay that way and is deeply pleased that Maddox is now the boss with Darius as number two. He liked the Bossman, they all did, but the Bossman was never one of them. He was a rich older white man intent on making money from the young council estate kids taking all the risks. He proved himself when the event happened and moved faster than anyone else, getting the compound secured and the kids safely inside. But still, Maddox was one of them and he knew what they’d all been through, so it was better he was in charge.

  Jagger felt proud when Darius sought him out and asked him to lead a patrol out with instruction to not engage with anyone, no stopping and talking, no taxing survivors, just move round the estate and make sure nothing bad was going on anywhere and get back so they could carry on working.

  As they threaded their way out of the gates, Jagger and his small company moved quietly and quickly through the streets. Stepping over and round the festering dead bodies, decomposing in the sun. He had wondered why they hadn’t cleared them away but Maddox said the smell covered up the compound and made it harder for the infected to find them. That’s why Maddox was in charge, cos he thought of things like that. Jagger had already decided to volunteer his crew for the night’s security, wanting the honour of going first and when he mentioned it to his crew they readily accepted.

  Now, in the oppressive heat of the scorching late afternoon sun the crew started their patrol. Moving down the main roads, checking the side streets and avenues and stopping to listen at every junction. The chat and banter between them was muted and quiet, his crew well-trained and experienced at staying nimble and alert. As the afternoon wore on, so Jagger felt a growing sense of discomfort.

  Every street was empty. No infected anywhere, no survivors picking through the debris and litter or breaking into the houses. Nothing appeared to have changed either, it was quiet, too quiet and his crew picked up on it too. Moving quietly and examining the streets with care they found not a single infected anywhere.

  ‘Speed up, we need to check the whole place,’
Jagger whispered to his crew, afraid of speaking loud in the deafening silence of the deserted estate.

  They did speed up and moved faster at a jogging pace, street by street, suburb by suburb, checking the various sets of shops and lock ups but nothing anywhere. It was eerie and profound and Jagger wanted nothing more than to head back to the compound and the laughing and joking with all his mates.

  As they entered a suburb previously allocated to Jagger and his crew, he moved them down to a house he knew was occupied by survivors. Standing outside he stared hard at the house, the windows were boarded up and the door had extra planks nailed across. No sign of life. He’d been told not to engage or speak to anyone but Jagger felt something wasn’t right, something was up. He hesitated for a few minutes but in the end, chose to do as told instead of trying to speak to the people in the house. Walking away he felt eyes staring at him from the house but every time he turned back there was nothing to see.

  Entering the compound, the gates already open to welcome them in and proving that the tower worked by Jagger and his crew being seen way down the street, Jagger was handed a bottle of water by Darius as he crew moved off to get drinks and find shade.

  ‘Something ain’t right bruv,’ Jagger took a long swig and wiped the sweat from his head, ‘there’s nothin’ out there, you get me? Nuffin’. No infected, no survivors, the place is empty bruv.’

  ‘You what?’ Darius asked.

  ‘I’m tellin’ you bruv, there was no movement, no infected, no zombies, no survivors, nothing, the whole estate is empty. We went everywhere, all the way down to the beach and the only thing we saw was some smoke like way out to sea, like a boat on fire or something innit.’

  ‘A boat?’ Darius repeated, clearly confused.

  ‘Yeah like miles away in the sea just some black smoke going up into the sky innit, there ain’t nuffin’ else out there.’

  ‘So where they all gone?’ Darius asked more to himself.

  ‘Dunno but it freaked us all out swear down.’

  ‘Yeah, get some rest Jagger, I’ll tell Maddox.’

  ‘Sweet bruv.’

  Darius moved off to find Maddox but with a hundred plans trying to be implemented and not having felt the eeriness himself something became lost in translation. By the time he found Maddox, in the unit talking to Lenski, he simply reported that Jagger had not seen anyone and no infected either, he did mention that Jagger was freaked out a little but the conversation quickly moved on to sorting the houses out and getting clean bedding, if they should keep all of the cannabis plants or just some, if they should let the crews use their back gardens or not, and re-arranging the tents in the compound.

  The emptiness of the estate, the lack of infected or survivors noted by Jagger was hardly pressed upon.

  To the north, barely a few miles away and on the other side of the motorway bordering the estate. The hordes gather quietly. Hundreds and hundreds of undead, fetid, decaying, drooling and all of them hungry.

  They mass in great numbers, held in place by the will of the super zombie holding his position on the unused motorway and staring with evil intent at the estate and the young tender bodies held within.

  Looking up at the sky the taxi driving zombie feels the heat of the day but knows the darkness is but a few hours away.

  Within the estate, survivors sharpen knives, tape blades to the end of sticks and make spears, find bats and ram nails through the ends, get bottles of white spirit and other flammable liquids and stuff rags in the necks. They quietly busy themselves, preparing for the darkness and the fun it will bring.

  Some are in a state of nervous trepidation. Others are excited and a few are outright shitting themselves. But they all know that if they move together, if they fight together they will take the compound and get the prize held within it. The drugs, the alcohol, the food, the safety. Then they will be the ones living in proper comfort while those feral little shits are put back out on the streets where they belong.

  Twelve

  ‘Look at that,’ Lani points over the back of RIB and out to sea, at the thick black smoke billowing from the ferry still drifting across the sea.

  ‘That’s a big smoke signal,’ I mutter quietly, reminded of Dave’s concerns from earlier and suddenly realising how easily we can be spotted now. We moved several miles down the coast, going away from Portsmouth and moving just a few hundred metres from the shore line, watching for the fort. None of us know exactly where it is, but we know it is this direction.

  The shore line changes from beautiful sandy beaches, rocky outcrops and manicured landscapes bordered by villages, fields and seaside businesses. Small harbours dotted here and there, some of them nothing more than a couple of pontoons with fishing boats tied alongside. The whole scene looks serene and comforting. Safe even. Rural England at the seaside, whitewashed cottages, brightly coloured wooden dinghies, shoreside pubs with tables and chairs scattered about, sun umbrellas advertising beers and soft drinks.

  The steady rumble of the outboard engine, the gentle breeze and the warmth of the day give me hope. Lani glancing at me every now and then, smiling and looking content. The whole thing gives me a sense of hope. Hope that there will be a future for mankind and that we can recover from this and maybe even make it better in the end.

  Green fields stretching away from the shore suddenly give way to houses. Lots of houses. A sprawling mess of a housing estate going back as far as the eye can see and seemingly going on for miles. Even from here the cheap shitty state of the houses are easily spotted. The rundown feel of the place. Terraced and semi-detached houses, built close together. It looks rough with items of furniture visible in front gardens. Satellite dishes hanging off walls, old paint and road poorly maintained. We all stare inland, watching as it slowly drifts by and I know I’m thanking whatever powers that rule us that I wasn’t in that estate when this thing went off. It would have been hell in such a built up urban area, people living on top of each other in an already hardened state of life.

  My family are working class, not posh or wealthy in any respect but thankfully we never lived on estates like that and I’ve heard stories about how hard they can be, and the reality television programmes that showed the lives of the twisted morals, the drug and alcohol abuse, the crime and violence. But like most people that never came from areas like that, I can’t help but look down my nose at them, at the way they lived, the aggressive overly defensive street language.

  Bloody hell, the end of the world, the zombie apocalypse is upon us and I’m still sneering at the perceived rough common people. I’m not the only one either judging by the comments of “chav city” and “pikey land” being muttered from everyone else.

  Then the engine cuts out.

  And we all turn to stare at Nick. Nick, who I have personally seen staring down hordes of zombie with a laughing glint in his eye. Facing certain death with barely a tremor. A hardened killer, skilled fighter, tough lad with a skill for electrical and mechanical things. He swam after a ferry and scaled a rope just to stop it getting away. But right now, sitting behind the wheel of a RIB, on a perfectly flat sea a few hundred metres from shore, and with the rest of us staring at him, he holds a look of horror on his face. Frozen in time. Unmoving as the silence descends and the only noise is the gentle lapping of the water from the front as the momentum of the boat pushes us along.

  ‘Shit,’ Nick mutters in a high pitched voice, ‘shit shit shit.’

  ‘Nick…’ Blowers asks softly.

  ‘Shit…shit shit shit,’ Nick repeats and grimaces as he twists the key and pushes the start button.

  ‘Nick….’ Blowers growls now with an edge to his voice.

  ‘I’m never fucking driving again, you lot can fuck off and drive yourselves from now on, fucking boats cutting out and engines….shit shit shit.’

  ‘Nick!’ Clarence’s deep voice snaps his head up, ‘it’s okay mate just calm down.’

  ‘Yeah thanks,’ Nick sighs with a look of relief.

>   ‘And fix the bloody boat,’ Clarence adds and the look of shock on Nick’s face sets me off as I burst out laughing. Cookey and Blowers instantly join in, laughing with delight. Nick smiles sheepishly and sticks his fingers up as we clamber our way over to him.

  ‘Don’t worry mate, boats just aren’t your thing,’ Blowers jokes.

  ‘Or piers,’ Lani shouts over to a fresh outbreak of giggles.

  ‘There’ll be some paddles here somewhere,’ Cookey says looking about.

  ‘Paddles? Are we on a hire boat on a canoe lake?’ Clarence grumbles, ‘you mean oars.’

  ‘Same thing,’ Cookey scratches his head, ‘aren’t they?’

  ‘We’ve got two,’ Lani holds two small oars up.

  ‘What’s wrong with it Nick?’ I ask the poor lad sat looking dumbstruck on the centre seat with his head in his hands.

  ‘No fuel Mr Howie,’ he replies quietly.

  ‘That’s not your fault mate; anyone of us could have checked that.’

  ‘Are we paddling along the coast or putting in here at gangsta land?’

  ‘I think we’d better go in here mate, find a vehicle and go by road. It’ll take hours to paddle along the coast with so many of us in this boat.’

  ‘Right, I’ll take one on this side,’ Clarence takes one of the oars and straddles the rubber skirt.

  ‘I’ll do the other side,’ I reach out to take the oar from Lani, who stares at me with a look of mock defiance.

  ‘I can paddle perfectly well Mr Howie,’ she smiles to show she’s joking and straddles the skirt. Both of them start moving the paddles through the water and within a couple of minutes it’s very clear this is going to be a long job. Two small paddles trying to push a big RIB through the water with several adults, loads of guns, crates of ammunition and a bloody great big machine gun.