by RR Haywood
As the afternoon wore on she busied herself round the house, gathering essential items into rucksacks and bags. Clothes, sleeping bags, bottles of water and the measly items of food she had in the cupboards. Cleaning items, soap, toothbrushes all went into bags. Then she collected photographs and family treasures, jewellery and within a few hours she realised she’d packed enough bags for a long holiday. She had to do it one journey. Get from the house to the car with one baby and one small child plus the bags. She couldn’t risk going back and forth. She could carry the baby and her son could walk, he could carry a small bag but that meant she only had one hand free. A rucksack and two other bags. That’s all she could take from the house.
The bags were emptied and the three chosen ones were set aside. She wanted to take so much, not knowing when, or if, she would ever be able to come back to the house. The mother was so busy with the bags and taking care of the children she failed to realise the evening sky was darkening. The shadows lengthened and became deeper.
Walking into her dark bedroom she instinctively reached out to turn the light on. The room filled with an orange glow as she passed the still open window, brushing her hair back from her face while frantically thinking of how to fill three bags with everything they needed.
A sudden spine tingling howling noise snapped her back to reality. The air was filled with guttural whines of undead lifting their faces to the inky black sky and joining in verse. Realising the folly of her actions she scurried back and thumped the light switch, missing the first time and striking it again. The room plunged into darkness with just the glow from the street lights casting their sickly hue into the house.
The mother rushed to the window and looked out, the street was even more littered with bodies now. The dog had stayed there this whole time, killing every undead that shuffled into view. Now the ground was covered in corpses, blood, filth and twisted remains. She leant down and saw the dog standing up, it looked tense and was staring with its head cocked to one side, ears flicking and twitching, the hairs on its immensely broad back were standing up.
There wasn’t a living thing in sight but the howls were coming from all directions. She’d left it too late. There was no way she could go now in the dark. She left the window and ran back into the house, gathering her children and hastily snatching snack food and bottles of water. She got back in the bedroom and closed the door, once more pushing the wardrobe and chests of drawers to block the entrance.
With her heart hammering in her chest she slumped down against the wall and held her baby tight. Her son cuddled up to her whimpering softly, she stroked his head and made low soothing sounds.
Then the baby woke up, opening his eyes and realising he was wet and hungry. He needed changing and a feed. The baby did what all babies do and let rip with an ear piercing scream. The mother’s heart dropped into her stomach at the noise as she searched round feeling for the pacifier and trying to shove it into the baby’s mouth. The baby was having none of it. He wanted food and the wet nappy taking off.
The mother quickly unbuttoned her shirt and pulled her bra down, exposing her breast and guiding the baby onto the nipple. It clamped on hungrily and thankfully went quiet. But the damage was done. As the howls had finished from outside, the baby had continued and all around the area undead ears pricked and turned at the sound of a succulent child screaming into the air.
The dog listened intently as the howls of the things split the air apart. Getting to her feet she sensed the change, the atmosphere became charged. Their energy was back, they would be fast again. Her acute hearing picked the individual voices out, pinpointing the closest ones and the direction they would be coming from.
Another sound joined the fray. The sound of a little one crying out inside the den. Not her little one, but another little one. Her own little one had once made noises like that when he was hungry or wet. The howling of the things ended but the noises from the little one continued.
She moved down the path and onto the street. They would hear the little one. They would be coming.
The dog glanced back up at the den and through the open window she could hear the little one eating. The sounds of contented gurgling and swallowing.
Sadness plucked at her heart. Her own little one gone now, gone far away with a new pack. Her pack leaders dead.
They came from the left first. A running horde coming straight towards the house. She heard them before she saw them. Sounds from further away to the right. They would come from both sides but the left would be first.
Her head lowered and she showed teeth. A deep bass growl sounding in her throat, it grew in pitch and volume as she pulled the lips back further. The wolf in her was ready. Her heart rate increased, flooding her muscles with adrenalin. Her eyes fixed, ears pricked.
The domestic pet snarled and made noise. She filled her lungs and made loud noise. This is my ground. Look at the ones I have killed already. Look around and see my destruction. See what waits for you.
As the horde came staggering into view she moved off with long fluid strides, a streak of darkness thundering through the street. Her eyes fixed on the thing in front. It was a male. Big and strong. It showed teeth. It growled as it charged at her. They all growled.
She growled back and leapt high into the air.
SEVEN
DAY TWO
Still snivelling, Paco kept a fast pace thundering through the English countryside, constantly glancing over his shoulder convinced that hordes of the monsters were chasing him or were lying in wait somewhere ahead.
Like many people from big countries, Paco had a pre-conceived idea that England was a small country and that translated that everything in it must be small. Small roads, small houses, small towns, small cars. So that meant the countryside must be small too. But now, after plodding aimlessly about for hours on end he realised just how large the rural areas really were.
By afternoon he found a road but having no idea what direction he was travelling, or if it was the same road he decided not to travel on it, but rather skulk alongside it keeping to the fields and bushes. Several times he had to come of the undergrowth when prevented from making headway by natural barriers such as thorny thicket hedges. When he did emerge he did so tentatively, almost tiptoeing on the tarmac to avoid making noise with his footsteps.
He grew thirsty again as the hot sun burned down onto his exposed head and arms. Hunger pangs kicked in, this being the first time in years that he hadn’t been given exactly the right amount of food at exactly the right time.
Sticking with the road he wound further into the deep countryside, the thickets of trees grew thicker, the grass longer, the fields bigger. This was farming country proper with not a village or town in sight. He crested hills and dropped down into shallow valleys.
By early evening he was getting desperate, knowing that the night was only hours away. Staying on the road, Paco kept his eyes up and scanning. A pheasant bursting from the bushes in a flurry of wings and twigs sent him diving into a ditch with a loud yelp, only to emerge shaking and cursing himself for crying out and drawing attention to himself.
He almost missed the opening to the dirt road, having established a walking method of turning his head left then right, up then back over his shoulder. He was so focussed on listening and watching for the monsters he came to a startled stop on seeing the lane and the faded old sign post for Willow Trees.
‘What the goddamn is Willow Trees?’ He muttered quietly. Is it a place? A house? A village? Why can’t the English put proper signs up and post boxes like normal countries?
It had to be something. A signpost always pointed at something. And right now, something was better than nothing so entered the shaded dirt road and gingerly made his way along.
The lane twisted and turned in true English style, with oppressive high hedgerows on both sides he felt hemmed in. The heat was unbearable. His mouth was parched and his stomach made noises, demanding to be fed.
As with the village, Paco spied the roof for
some time before actually gaining a view of the building. Winding his way through the lane he gradually came into sight of another stone built cottage standing alone in a clearing, outhouses and old sheds bordered a stony garden area.
He crept forward, slowly placing one foot in front of the other and viewed the house. It was more functional looking than the stone built houses in the village. They were pretty and decorative with nice flower beds and white net curtains in the windows. This was plain looking with weeds growing from the cracks where the bricks met the ground. The path to the front door looked clear and even in his panicked state he realised this meant someone lived here. Staying low he shuffled forward and frantically scanned the area, straining his ears for any noise. Nervously glancing at the sky and trying to guess the time and how long he had until the sun went down.
Making a decision to keep edging forward he moved out from the end of the lane into the open area, heading slowly towards the house. Halfway across he froze in terror and stifled a scream at the sight of a body lying half out of one of the outhouses, a pitchfork standing upright with the prongs buried deep in the corpses head.
Paco went to run back, then panicked and decided to run to the house. But whoever killed that man might be in the house so he turned and started back to the lane again. But that dead man would probably be one of the monsters, which meant someone brave was here, someone who could kill them with a pitchfork, someone who could protect him. He about turned and ran back towards the house. But what if they were a psycho? It could be like that film about the author man who got his legs chopped off by the crazy fan woman in the deep country. Gibbering with fear he once more about turned and started back towards the lane. But that would mean another night out in the open with those monsters roaming the land seeking him out to eat his brains. That was more than he could take so he once more stopped and headed back to the house, coming to a full stop at the sight of the woman stood in the doorway holding a shotgun.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ She called out, ‘running back and forth like a madman!’ Paco stayed still taking in the full bodied figure of the young woman. Blond hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and wearing tight jeans, an open checked shirt and a white vest top underneath which showed off her ample cleavage. She was beautiful but was also holding a shotgun, which was pointed right at him.
‘Hi,’ his voice quavered in fear so he coughed and took a breath, the consummate actor preparing to cover his nerves, ‘sorry I had dust in my throat,’ he smiled and stood up straight, ‘I er….wasn’t sure if anyone was here, then I saw the body and well….’ He smiled sheepishly.
‘You’re that actor aren’t you? She said suspiciously.
‘Yes Ma’am, I am that man,’ he bowed his head and held his hands away from his body.
‘Well what the bloody hell are you doing here?’ She asked.
‘We were filming in the studios near here,’ he took a step forward and stopped as the barrel of the shotgun lifted a few inches, ‘whoa! Take it easy lady…the film set went crazy like everyone attacking each other…’
‘How did you get away then?’ She asked bluntly.
‘Well I…I tried to lead them away, there were some injured people and survivors so I kind of made a hell of a lot of noise and made those…those things come after me…I left the studios and then kind of got lost in the countryside…’
‘I see,’ she replied, clearly thinking of what to do now.
‘Ma’am may I ask, is this…this thing…is it just here or what?’
‘Everywhere,’ she replied instantly.
‘What do you mean everywhere,’ he took another step forward as his stomach dropped into his shoes, she didn’t lift the shotgun again seeing the look of fear on his face and guessing he had no idea what was going on if he’d been lost since it began.
‘It’s everywhere,’ her tone was softer now, ‘the whole world probably.’
Paco reeled in shock, his hands going to his face. His legs felt rubbery and weak, ‘how…how do you know that?’ He asked quietly.
‘It was on the news. It’s everywhere. Then the telly stopped working. The phones are down, no television, no radio, nothing. Internet is gone too…the power is still on.’
‘Jeesh,’ Paco shook his head taking it in. Convinced that this was a localised event and truly believing he would be safely on a plane home within a couple of days. ‘What about the States?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said softly, ‘it started in Europe and seemed to sweep across within a few hours. Then he turned up so I figured it was here too.’
‘He?’ Paco asked confused.
‘Him,’ she nodded at the outhouse and the body with the pitchfork through its head.
‘Oh…him…was he one of the monst….er…things?’
‘Yes, he came this morning and caught me off guard but he was moving slowly, not like the ones on the telly last night.’
‘Yeah,’ Paco nodded, ‘they were fast last night but I saw some today who were all slow.’
‘I thought you said you’d been lost in the woods all day?’ She eyed him again.
‘I am…I mean I was…I found a village some miles away but it was crawling with the…well the things I guess.’
‘Village? Was it a long road with houses on both sides? Stone cottages…lots of flowers in the front garden?’
‘Yeah that was it,’ Paco nodded.
‘Crawling was it?’ She asked, ‘I know that place, the youngest person living there must be seventy…’
‘Hey lady, trust me it was packed with those things, like wall to wall…’ Paco lied.
‘Shit,’ she spat, ‘I was going to head for there.’
‘Really? I wouldn’t do that now if I were you, it’s…well it’s gone.’
‘Figures,’ she tutted and lowered the shotgun, ‘well you look like you could do with a drink, come inside.’ She turned and disappeared through the open door. Paco swallowed his nerves and started after her, entering the darkened hallway of the cottage and watching the back of the woman walk down the hall and into the kitchen at the back. He followed her into the kitchen and looked in amazement at the pots and pans all filled with water and covered with film. Every available receptacle had been used and were scattered over the worktops and large table in the middle of the floor.
‘Is the water off?’ He asked.
‘Not yet but I thought I’d better get prepared in case it does,’ she replied, ‘help yourself,’ she nodded to the sink and handed him a big ceramic mug. He nodded and reached the tap within a second, turning the flow on and filling the mug. He downed the contents and kept going, filling and drinking.
‘Thirsty then?’ She asked. He nodded back with the cup pressed to his
‘Can I wash up?’ He asked the woman who was stood the other side of the table watching him closely.
‘Wash up? There’s nothing to wash up.’ She replied with a frown.
‘What?’ He asked.
‘Why would you want to wash up? You’ve just got here?’
‘Sorry I’ve been running all night and day, I feel filthy and the sweat has dried on my skin…’ he explained feeling confused.
‘Oh! You mean you want to wash? Like wash your face?’
‘Yeah, wash up,’ he shrugged.
‘We call that washing here, washing up is when you clean the dishes after eating food,’ she shook her head.
‘Oh, my mistake,’ he smiled his coy smile and looked down at the floor, giving it his best slightly embarrassed look.
‘There’s a bathroom upstairs if that’s any better for you,’ she smiled brief and quick, just a show of teeth and with no humour from the eyes but the gesture was there.
‘Thanks, say what’s your name?’ Paco asked as he started towards the door.
‘Lucy and yours?’ She asked in return making him frown.
‘Er…Paco, its Paco Maguire,’ he replied.
‘Course it is! Sorry I couldn’t remember. Not really into the who
le action movie thing. No offence,’ she said plainly.
‘No none taken,’ he smiled and moved down the hallway. How can anyone not know my name? I’m the most famous man in Hollywood at the moment. Even if she didn’t watch my movies she would have seen me in magazines and newspapers. He climbed the bare wooden staircase taking note of the ramshackle appearance of the house. The walls chipped with long faded paint, the bannister worn smooth with several sections missing. Reaching the top he walked slowly down the hall, peering into the bare rooms. Only one of them has furniture consisting of a large brass double bed and a chest of drawers. Suitcases and bags stacked along the wall, the tops open with the contents on display. Some clothes on the bed.
In the bathroom he stood in front of the stained sink and turned the tap on. The water gushed out filling the room with noise. A single toothbrush in an old glass, a tube of toothpaste on the side. Stripping his torn, filthy and far too tight top off he body washed in the cold water, using a flannel and a bottle of shower crème found on side of the old bathtub. He soaked the sweat and dirt away from his skin, rubbing at his armpits and all over his upper body.
He toed the door closed and stripped his boots and trousers off. The water from the stream washed most of the shit away but they still smelled bad. He took the clothes to the bathtub and used the bigger taps to scrub the trousers and top, concentrating on the rear section and the brown stains left there.
Paco stripped his boxers off, repulsing from stench coming from them. Urine and shit mixed with days old sweat. He scrubbed his groin and arse, rubbing the flannel down his legs and washing between his toes.
Finished, he wrings the clothes out, his muscles bulging with exertion as he twists the material round and applies pressure before shaking them out to get rid of the creases.
He tried putting the clothes back on, but despite the heat of the day, the cold wetness of the clothes clinging feeling turned his stomach. Glancing round he saw a flimsy white cotton gown on the back of the door and squeezed his frame into it. The gown barely covering his modesty and the sleeves ending just below his elbows.