The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  Jenny, who just a few minutes before had been taking a part of his body in her mouth, is now taking someone else’s body in her mouth. Her red bloodshot eyes matched the colour of the glistening blood cascading down her chin. She turns her head slowly and fixes Paco with a baleful stare. An intense look of hunger in her eyes as she jerks to her feet and starts staggering towards him.

  That was enough for Paco. He turns and runs. His strong legs pumping furiously as he pounds down the mock street and away from the lights of the set, into the darkness.

  Paco runs through the movie set, passing through varying streets of international design. Each styled according to the scenes filmed. He runs through sixties London complete with vintage vehicles. An Italian Sorrentine piazza complete with café and working fountain. The building fronts were fakes. There was nowhere to go other than straight on. He knows that behind the buildings are snakes of wiring and electrical outlets and, more worryingly, deep shadows. The thought of running behind the buildings and into the darkness terrifies him even more.

  He whimpers and twitches his head round, jumping at every sound. He follows the sets, not realising he’s looping round in a giant circle and leading back to the point he started. He is fit and despite the muscle on his frame he is also athletic so keeping a constant jogging pace was easy. There’s no rational thought process in his mind. Just utter panic. Seeing people being killed and ripped apart right in front of his eyes. He’d sue the studio for putting him danger like that, he’d sue the studio and the companies that provided the sets, the security, the catering, the cast…he’d sue everyone. He’s Paco Maguire and they put him in danger. Even the security should have run to protect him first but they didn’t, they ran into the fight and got themselves hurt and therefore unable to protect him. He’d sue them first.

  He loops through a mock bombed out World War Two English street and turns a corner, coming to a sudden stop and staring back down at the lights of the set he had fled from. Frozen to the spot his eyes sweep across the set and the people still attacking each other. Blood everywhere, screams and shouts as the few survivors group together and back into a corner. They’ve armed themselves with bits of metal, chairs, tripods and anything they can grasp. Paco stares as the advancing horde takes them apart within seconds. A dark stain forms on his groin as he pisses himself through fear and a small dribble of shit exits his arse as his bowels void. He has no idea his bodily functions were doing this; such was the fear and panic that steals through his mind.

  He turns round with his hands pressed to the top of his head, spinning and spinning as he desperately looks for an exit. His brain unable to cope with the situation and unwilling to process the information.

  The service road. He needs the service road. He searches round in blind blithering hysteria, not realising he’s still whimpering and uttering high pitched squeals. He sees the exit at last and starts towards it, intent on getting to the security gate and finding people who will protect him. Checking over his shoulder he observes the group of attackers leaving the bodies they had taken down and starting towards him. He screams and again starts running. His screams send a message to the horde that had already detected the stench of fear, shit and piss and started after him.

  Paco runs fast. Sprinting down the service road towards the lights of the industrial hangars used for the indoor sets. The gate is ahead of him and he peers ahead trying to seek out the guards he knew will be there.

  The gate is empty and hanging open. Paco doesn’t hang around to find out why as he races through. He twists round to check behind him and feels a slight relief at the empty road behind him. Something snags his feet and he goes down, sprawling over a soft object. He splays his arms out, grazing his palms on the road surface. Scrabbling round he recoils at the remains of the guard spread out on the road, the entrails and innards strewn about and looking every bit as good as the prosthetic dummies used on set. He screams again and crabs backwards, gaining his feet and running towards the hangars.

  Bodies strewn everywhere. Blood pooled and black in the shadows. He jogs on uttering with fear at every corpse and swerving round them, desperate to avoid being anywhere near the bloodied things.

  ‘HELP ME!’ A voice pierces the air; he stops abruptly, spinning round trying to see into the gloom. The voice screams again, somewhere close but unseen. Someone in pain. A woman needing help.

  He ignores it and runs on. He’s an actor not a hero, not a cop, not a soldier. Sure he’d played all of them many times in his movies but he kept the thought in mind that he was depicting them, portraying them. They were professionals with training and equipment. They took those risks as part of their chosen careers. His was acting so why should he put himself at risk.

  Groans and howls sound out, echoing through down the narrow alleys between the hangars. Not one living person to be seen. He wants to run inside the hangars and find someone, find a phone, find somewhere brightly lit and safe but most of them were locked up for the night. Those that were open were in darkness and looked too foreboding to enter.

  In crazed fear he ploughs on, hurdling over bodies and swerving away from the noises in the shadows. He hears voices and whimpers, people crying in pain and suffering but his suffering is worse than theirs. He is world famous. People need him. He has to keep going and find someone to protect him.

  He reaches the end of the hangars, sweat pouring from his face as he runs out into the lane that leads to the main road and the main entrance. There will be security at the main gate, always a whole team of them ready to search vehicles. Paco slows down, his chest heaving and the blood pounding past his ears. The front of his far too tight top now darkened with sweat and the piss stain still vivid on his tan coloured trousers. Glancing about nervously he creeps on down the bush lined road.

  Howls come from behind him. He spins round, walking backwards as he watches the end of the hangars and the entrance to the road running between them. Shadows flitting and growing larger by the second. The high wall lights cast the silhouettes of the horde running after him onto the side of the hangar.

  They stagger into view. Twisted, gruesome features ravaged by injury and blood soaked, all of them staring at him as they stagger faster now their prey is in sight.

  He screams again and starts running, then stops at the sight of the undead guards running towards him from the direction of the main gate.

  ‘Oh fuck…oh fuck…’ he mutters as the panic rises higher in his stomach. He flicks his gaze between the horde coming from the hangars and the guards coming at him. All of them savaged and jerking. Rooted to the spot he spurts more shit out of his arse as he struggles to think.

  Bursting away he surges through the thick bushes, scratching his skin and tearing his t shirt as the sharp branches fight against him. He struggles through to the other side, breaking free and plunging into the almost pitch blackness of the grounds bordering the road.

  He staggers on, feet tripping over branches and making far too much noise. The horde reach the point of his disappearance and start after him, groaning with frustration as they too struggle to push through the thick bushes.

  Paco races on, blundering through the undergrowth, running straight, then running left and then right. He sees a gap in the darkened hedgerow and aims straight for it, jumping through and landing on the road just a short distance up from where he went in. The now joined hordes are still trying to get through the thick bushes. Taking advantage of their backs being turned he runs on towards the gate.

  Racing round the corner he can see the security hut brilliantly lit against the night sky. The security barriers are still down but he runs on, hoping against hope that someone living and normal will be there.

  Reaching the hut he scrabbles round all sides of the building, staring in at the empty room. He finds the door and pushes his way inside, wrenching the phone handset and dialling 9-1-1 out of pure instinct. A loud beeping sounds at him from the receiver and it takes a few seconds to remember he’s in England and t
he emergency number was 9-9-9. He presses the buttons and again gets the beeping sound. He tries again while peering out of the window. The beeping coming back at him.

  A list of essential numbers pinned to the wall and starts with the first one for the head of security. It’s engaged. They’re all engaged. Pressing his face against the window he half screams when he sees the first of the undead staggering into the light just metres from the hut.

  Ditching the phone he runs from the building and vaults the downed security barrier with ease. Running down the small access road and out onto the smooth surface of the main road, he sprints hard, desperate to make distance from the things behind him. With each step he waits for the hands to pull him back, expecting the twisted fingers of the monsters to take hold of his flesh and pull him to the ground. Tears pour down his red cheeks and mingle with the sweat that burns his eyes. His chest heaving for air, his arms and legs pumping furiously.

  Five days a week he was in the gym being pushed by the best personal trainers money could buy. His diet was perfect and he avoided alcohol for months at a time in preparation for the roles he played. While many of his peers used recreational drugs, he lived on a diet of low fat, complex carbs and high protein. Steroids were used to give his muscles that extra pump in the weeks before filming, but they were strictly controlled and administered by well-paid doctors. He was fitter and healthier than the heroes he portrayed on film and he put every ounce of that fitness to use as he propelled himself away from the horde. Fear gave him extra stamina. A near hysterical belief that the things were right behind him; they were monsters and would keep going all night. Nothing would stop them. They wanted to eat him and take his brains.

  His speed starts to ebb away, the adrenalin exhausted and leaving his muscles weak and powerless. Paco can feel his legs starting to feel rubbery and his breathing becomes uncontrolled. He knows he has to slow down but the fear keeps giving him extra spurts of energy. He whimpers and cries out, begging them to leave him, begging for forgiveness and crying out for his mother.

  Gradually, step by faltering step he slows. Stumbling and wracking his body with heaving sobs and sucking air into his lungs. He windmills his arms trying to drive himself on. He berates himself, telling himself he’s Paco Maguire, a star. His body gives up and he collapses to the ground. On all fours he crawls with snot dripping from his nose, vomit coming from his mouth. He tastes bile and tries to spit it away, his airwaves becoming clogged and his vision blurring.

  He gives up and waits for the first hand to reach out and grab his ankle. Waiting for the teeth to sink into his skin.

  He rolls onto his back and looks up through teary eyes at the stars in the clear night sky. He sobs, whimpering, flailing his arms pathetically against his own chest.

  Nothing happens. Nothing grabs him. He glances up and looks down the long straight road that is completely devoid of life. The moon is high and bright; casting shadows from the tree’s bordering the tarmac. Nothing moved. There’s nothing coming after him. The whole of the road is empty.

  Paco Maguire, Hollywood’s most famous alpha male, laid flat out on a country road in southern England on a hot Friday summer evening. Soaked in tears, sweat, piss and shit he sobbed and wailed. Too terrified and too exhausted to move.

  FOUR

  DAY TWO

  The dawn sun moves gradually across the wide stretch of undergrowth separating the urban sprawl. A steady trickle of water meanders over rocks and pebbles. Birds chirp in the branches. Within a clearing of the bushes a very large German Shepherd dog lies on her side. Her long pink tongue hanging from the side of her open mouth. Her chest rising and falling with each rapid breath. Her tail twitches listlessly. Her feet and legs make small running motions as she whimpers softly.

  Her eyes open. Beautiful soft brown eyes with dark pupils and perfect white surrounds. She sits up and pants heavily, shaking her head from the dream. She looks about and sniffs at her own legs, deciding that the crusted blood and filth must go she commences an energetic cleaning session, twisting round and gnawing the dirt away. Her long rough tongue rubbing the dirt from her soft hair.

  Finished and she stretches, letting her back legs dip down as she drives her front legs into the ground and elongates her back. Another shake and she is ready for the day, moving down to the stream and taking a long drink. She moves through the undergrowth and finds a spot to defecate and deposit her scent. With voided bowels she turns lazily and sniffs at the steaming pile of faeces. It smells normal. So does her scent.

  Hungry. She works her way along the footpath and finds several of the black things left on the ground. She knew the black things. The pack leaders always kept them in the garden and then some people invaders would come and take them away. The black things always smelled good. She used to open them and eat the insides but the pack leaders made it known this was bad. But she was hungry and the pack leaders weren’t here. Out of habit she looked round several times already feeling guilty for knowing what she wanted to do. She sniffed through them and found one that contained meat and quickly shredded the thin outer layer to rummage through and wolf the food down.

  The strange sensation she had during the night left after a few hours and she barely registered the discomfort as she slept and recovered her muscles from the exertion of the previous day. Now, fed and watered she felt entirely normal, apart from a deep sense of loss from the little one being taken away and the pack leaders changing the way they did.

  She left the soft ground and moved back into the hard ground where the people lived. The stench of death hung heavily in the air. Scent trails drifting low over the warm ground, as tangible to her incredible sense of smell as colours to the eyes of humans. She walked slowly, inhaling the odours and working out how many of the things moved through here, how long ago, the direction they went and the gender they were before they changed. The unique scent they left was one of decay, blood and a negative energy that screamed of a dangerous hunger.

  She could smell fear too, fear from the people still living in the area and she knew without conscious thought that if she could smell it, they would too. It was a real thing accompanied by its own set of signals. The same as sadness, anger, happiness. She often sensed the fear in people when they met her for the first time. Her huge frame, dark face and intelligent eyes made many people very cautious. But those things didn’t smell of fear. They were animalistic in their manner. Moving in pack but not working as a pack. They didn’t react as a pack when one was threatened or taken down. They moved in numbers but not together. She maintained motion, trotting at an easy gait as she worked her way through the streets.

  The loss of her pack weighed heavy inside her. She felt a need to belong, to find her position and work together. Being alone was hard and it made you weak.

  Once more she scented them before she saw or heard them. Turning into the next street she spied a horde shuffling along. Their slow and jerky movements and the low growling noises they made. She tracked them quietly, gradually going lower as she fixed her eyes on the one at the rear. It was big with strong legs and a wide back. She recognised the size of the prey and knew it would be harder to take down. She judged her angle of approach and crept along. The thing jerked left and right, following a set pattern of movement.

  Decision made and she ran forward, using the things solid back and the shelf of its arse to power herself up and take a big chunk from the neck as she bounced off. A bright spray of crimson blood spurted out as the bite severed the main artery. The thing kept going for a few steps then slowed, staggered and fell.

  The others showed no reaction and kept with their forward momentum. She tracked the next one and positioned herself once more behind it. Launching high she powered her front paws into the back and took the thing straight down, landing fully on the things back and tearing the neck open quickly. She leapt away and took the next one in the same way. A high jump and using her power and momentum to simply knock it over. The sharp teeth and quick shake of the head ri
pped the flesh open and they were dead.

  It was easy.

  As the morning wore on she perfected the technique. Tracking the scent of them on the street. Finding the horde and using her weight to take them down. She killed men, women and children. Simply knowing they were not men, women or children. They were things that would kill the little one if they found him.

  The heat wore her out faster than the exertion and she kept having to stop and find water. Making her way into the open dens of other packs and finding the place they deposited their scent, drinking from ponds, streams and outside taps left dripping.

  The taste of the things didn’t bother her. She did not see them as a food source. They were prey to be killed. So she killed. With each kill she drank the blood as it spurted into her mouth and coated her tongue, some of the flesh was swallowed too.

  The infection was ingested time and again. Infected cells raced through her blood stream, surging through her organs and desperately attempting to do what it was designed to do.

  It failed as the anti-bodies in her system killed the infection. Despite the sustained ingestion and the constant attack she faced; it failed.

  The pure blood of the dog was untainted by the foulness.

  FIVE

  DAY TWO

  Paco woke with a start, yelling out and sitting bolt upright, sending the branches and debris flying off in all directions. He breathed heavily, not knowing where he was and squinting from the bright sunlight pouring through the trees. Slowly, he gained control and looked about. He was in a small clearing of a wooded copse. Nodding with small jerky motions he remembered the previous night and how he crawled from the road sobbing and losing more precious fluid as he cried and cried.