by RR Haywood
‘WE’RE DONE,’ Pete yells at me, pointing to the chemist shop. I nod to Cookey to turn the music off. A deafening silence drops down as the music ends abruptly with just the occasional shot ringing out.
‘Oh well, we got a few…load up for the next exciting trip,’ I call out. At least the music and contact has lifted the lethargy but the heat is still as evil as before with an utterly scorching sun.
‘Next?’ I ask Clarence as he turns the map the right way round and holds it out to avoid the drips of sweat falling from his head.
‘Further down this road, not far.’
We pull out and move slowly down the road, the GPMG firing every now and then as Nick spots undead shuffling into view. Another green cross and we pile back out, repeating the same actions as before. This one is completely looted and smashed up. Even some of the shelving has been taken judging by the large gaps on the shop floor and outline on the faded carpet.
No store room this time; a smaller family run pharmacy with the stock held behind the counter. Five minutes later and we’re back on the road, heading towards the cash and carry with Cookey standing behind the front seats choosing the next playlist.
‘Sorry Blowers, Lani doesn’t have it,’ he calls back.
‘Have what?’ Blowers asks.
‘The Village People.’
‘Get fucked.’
‘I think that should be our theme song, YMCA…now that would be funny,’ Cookey carries on. How he can keep the banter up in this stagnant humid air is beyond me. Glancing across I see Clarence looking strained and tired, his face bright red and sweating heavily. Tom hands warm sugary drinks round which we down quickly with more water.
‘We could put signs up,’ Clarence breaks the silence.
‘For the fort?’ I ask, thinking the same thing.
‘But then Darren retained intelligence so it would just advertise our location,’ he continues.
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘After today we need a rest and some decent food,’ he changes subject quickly.
‘We’re not likely to get it though, it’s this heat mate…sapping everyone, it can’t stay like this can it?’
‘Fuck knows boss,’ he shrugs. He seems drained and withdrawn which worries me, his strength and presence has seen us through some of the worst times. Mind you, we’re all drained and withdrawn, apart from Cookey who is trying his best to keep our spirits up.
TWENTY-FIVE
DAY SEVEN
‘What the…’ Paco woke with a start, the fleeting images of his nightmare already ebbing away. It was dark and for a few seconds he couldn’t place where he was. A heavy breathing noise from nearby sent his pulse racing until he remembered it was the dog and he was in the house.
Striding across the room he gently pulls the curtain back to see the last tendrils of daylight fading.
‘It’ll happen soon,’ he muttered. He checked up and down the darkened street for movement. Nothing. A clock above the fireplace counted the seconds of his life away, penetrating the silence. He felt better, far better for having eaten food and sleeping solidly for several hours.
A low quick hissing sound knotted his forehead in confusion. Then the smell of the dogs fart reached him, a dirty foul smell of rotten eggs that filled every inch of the room.
‘Damn beans.’ He waved the air in front of his nose trying to waft the stench away. Another low hiss and a gurgling noise coming from her stomach, he looked down sternly. She stared back with a big grin and long pink tongue hanging out and gave another low hiss, turning to stare at her own backside as if wondering where the noise was coming from.
‘Shit,’ he whispered gagging quietly and pulling a fistful of curtain over his mouth and nose. His own stomach was gurgling with a pressing sensation deep inside his gut. Leaning forward slightly he lifted one foot an inch from the ground, grimacing as he added to the smell with his own flatulence. A look of relief on his face while the dog cocked her head to one side staring towards his backside. He groaned as another one came out louder than the first, a long wet sound that spluttered and tailed off. She hissed again. He gave another one. They farted in unison with a big grin spreading across his face and the dog seemingly panting harder from the lack of oxygen.
The howling began and it sent his stomach plummeting, cutting off the farting and laughter. Instantly she was on her feet, staring intently towards the front of the house, ears pricked, head cocked and a low growl coming from her throat.
Paco backed away from the window, looking left and right. The howling was all about but not close. A distant wailing that drifted on the currents of warm air and brought utter terror into his soul. Backing away he fumbled to the sofa, sitting at the end and drawing his knees up to his chest. The howling ceased abruptly, filling the room with the sound of the second hand ticking round the clock face.
Eyes fixed on the window he failed to hear the dog padding over to him and pushing her wet nose against his hand, making him yelp in fright. Patting the seat next to him he urged the dog up onto the sofa, stroking her broad back and moving closer to her simply for the comfort of the contact. She allowed the fuss and stayed sitting up for a long time, enjoying being fussed for the first time in a week. With a sigh she lowered her body down to lie next to him, ears still pricked and twitching at sounds Paco couldn’t hear.
They stayed there for hours, man and dog staying close together and both farting every few minutes.
Her growling brought him round, coming to quickly and this time knowing exactly where he was. Her growling was different, deeper somehow. He could sense the tension in her body as stirred and lifted her head from her paws. A noise from outside. A shuffling coming closer. Fully awake now he rested one head on the dog’s head and felt the vibration of her growl coming through her skull.
Groaning from directly outside, something being dragged. The front door reverberated with a loud bang causing the dog to leap from the sofa making noise. Paco followed behind, trying to shush the dog but the damage was done. The front door rattled with the impact of bodies slamming into it from the other side. He heard them outside the window too, the unmistakable low growling noise as they staggered about.
She made more noise, telling them she was here and she wasn’t afraid of them. She’d killed them before and she would again. She felt the presence of the man behind her, the fear was pouring from him. She could smell it and so could the things outside the den.
She made noise at the man, telling him to open the den and let her kill them. They wouldn’t go now so she should attack them. The man was just like the little one, consumed with fear and not doing anything. He just stood there staring with his mouth open and his legs knocking together.
She threw herself at the door knowing they were on the other side. Many of them and more coming, she wanted to destroy them, to end them.
The door held fast as the sworn enemies slammed and slammed again. Paco, once more rooted to the spot with fear watched as the dog barked, snarled and threw herself against the door. He moved to the kitchen, heading towards the kitchen. Reaching the back door he jumped back as something heavy hit the door from the other side. Groans and snarls coming through clearly. He leant over the sink and pulled the curtain back; the monsters were at the back door, slamming their evil bodies into it. They wanted his flesh and they’d found him.
Gibbering, whimpering, tears falling down his cheeks he moved away from the back door and stood in the hallway. His head jerking to stare at the doors as the monsters banged and thudded into them. His body convulsing and jumping in a never ending series of spasms.
A different sound penetrated the fear and reached his ears, a splintering noise. His eyes slowly looked to the back door that was slowly being battered inwards. The lock splintering in the frame with a loud crunching from the repeated strikes.
He could have moved quickly and thrown his substantial weight and strength against the door. He could have grabbed one of the many large kitchen knives from the d
rawer and stabbed out, making a brave stand. He could have done many things but he didn’t. He backed away from the opening door, imagining the clawed hands reaching round to rake at his flesh. The dog was still barking at the front door, launching at the things beyond.
The air was thick with the stench of them. They were charged up, angry and hungry. She felt their thirst for flesh. A noise from behind, she glanced round to see them coming in from the other entrance. The man was screaming and running up the hill. They were through, in the den. She left the front door and bounded towards the big one at the front. He was different. The ones behind him were different too. They weren’t staring past her this time.
They were looking at her.
TWENTY-SIX
DAY ELEVEN
‘This doesn’t look right Mr Howie,’ Dave voiced out thoughts from his position stood behind the front seats of the Saxon. The cash and carry warehouse is further up this road, set on an industrial estate just outside the town centre.
There’s more bodies here, far more than we’d expect on the outskirts of the town centre. Some attempt has been made to pile them up in big heaps of grotesque once human remains of twisted arms, legs and heads hanging down.
The ground is heavily blood stained with many more bodies littering the roads and pavement. The ones that we pass close enough are undead with horrific head injuries from blunt trauma and sharp implements.
‘You two been here before?’ I joke at Clarence and Dave; neither of them sees the funny side but just stare out at the morbid sight.
‘Fuck me…’ Clarence growls at the sight of the densely packed horde all facing away from us. Slowing down I can see they’re all on the approach road to the cash and carry warehouse. The tops of high metal gates can be seen over their heads, blocking them from entering the warehouse car park.
I bring the Saxon to a stop and reach for the radio clipped to my bag beside the seat.
‘Howie to Pete and the vans, are you receiving me?’
‘Pete to Mr Howie, we can see them…large contact right?’
‘Yes mate, to the other vans further back; we’ve got a huge crowd of them ahead of us. We’ll pull up here until we can clear the route. Stay in your vehicles.’
‘Can I shoot them?’ Nick shouts.
‘Not yet mate, there might be people on the other side of the gates. We need to draw them out first,’ I shout back.
‘How do you work this thing Cookey?’ Clarence asks holding the IPod in his hand, making it look like a postage stamp clutched between his huge fingers.
‘Can I do it,’ Cookey takes the device offered him by Clarence, his fingers quickly swiping across the screen. ‘Got to be time for our theme tune,’ he smiles, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
The music blasts out from the speaker system, the opening beats of We Run This booming into the otherwise fairly peaceful area. Well, peaceful other than the hundreds of undead gathered here, and the mounds of bodies, and the other bodies lying about that is.
‘Oh yes!’ Nick laughs from over our heads, ‘this is fucking brilliant!’ The undead react as one as soon as the music blares out. Turning round to see the Saxon sat there holding several nice juicy bodies for them to munch on.
‘COME ON YOU HUNGRY FUCKERS,’ Nick bellows.
‘Pull over onto that bit of ground, we can fire across them and avoid hitting the gates,’ Dave points off to the side. I nod back and engage the engine to mount the high kerb and bounce onto the patch of sun scorched dirt.
‘Are we getting out to fire?’ Blowers asks from the back.
‘Yeah, why not,’ I shout back and reach down for my assault rifle. We clamber out, gulping the charged heated air, like walking into a furnace. Gathered on the passenger side of the Saxon sticking close to the vehicle we wait for them to slowly shuffle our way, turning across the pavement to head towards us.
‘Head shots?’ I ask.
‘You’re on’ Clarence replies, ‘and no cheating Cookey.’
‘As if I would,’ he replies indignantly.
‘Am I excluded again?’ Dave asks flatly to a chorus of “yes” from the rest of us, even Nick shouts the answer down. ‘Nick, I’m taking that gun,’ he adds in a something I can only describe as a sulky tone.
‘Ah what? That’s not fair…you’ll kill ‘em all,’ Nick whines but does as he’s told, dropping down the hole and swapping over with Dave. Nick takes his assault rifle and joins us on the side.
‘Head shots is it?’ Dave asks once through the hole and clutching the heavy machine gun.
‘Oh he’s done that before,’ Cookey says in alarm at all the undead being killed and leaving nothing for the rest of us.
‘What with that thing?’ Lani asks with a puzzled face.
‘Yep, on the way back from London, or going into London…something to do with London anyway,’ Cookey answers wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.
‘And we were moving at the time,’ Blowers adds.
‘He got head shots with a big machine gun on top of a moving vehicle?’ Tom asks in awe.
‘Yeah, Dave do the headshots thing,’ Cookey urges him. Dave doesn’t need much temptation at the best of times. He settles himself in, face blank and devoid of expression. Aiming down the sights he takes a practise run, sweeping the gun across the crowd. Nodding once he lets rip, the air splitting apart from the solid recoil of the weapon. We watch as he sweeps the gun across the crowd.
‘Oh….my….god,’ Lani’s mouth drops open, as does the rest of ours at the sight of undead heads popping open like exploding melons. Pink mist after pink mist, puffing into the air. One second the undead has a head, the next it doesn’t as the heavy calibre round bursts the skull apart, blowing the brain into smithereens. Not every one is a head shot, the horde is made up off many different sizes and heights, but the effect is awesome and it looks like they’re all headshots.
The competition is forgotten as Dave rakes the gun back and forth across them, it’s as mesmerising to watch the heads pop as it to watch the look of utter concentration on Dave’s face as he aims down the sights. A grand master displaying his incredible talent, which just happens to be killing other people. The thought skewers my perspective and for a second I’m not watching undead zombies being killed but people, men women and children. The sight suddenly sickens me and I have to turn away and squeeze my eyes closed. Thoughts race through my mind and I will myself to think of my mother and father, of Jamie, Tucker, Curtis and McKinney. Thinking of them and the blackness starts. Then Darren and Marcy fill my head, the image of Steven under me, screaming as I blow his brains out on the stairs of the church tower.
Fuck ‘em. They’re undead. They’re all undead. I lift the assault rifle and fire into the ranks. The others join me a split second later, our small arms fire adding to the cacophony of noise. We change magazines and keep firing, picking them off but the GPMG does most of the work. Within a couple of minutes were looking at a vista of broken bodies. Dave picking the odd one off here and there from his advantage of being higher up.
‘That was incredible,’ Tom says quietly at the same time as Dave shouting “clear”. We climb back into the vehicle and start driving back onto the road, the massive wheels crushing the bodies as we bounce over the corpses.
Gaining the access road to the cash and carry warehouse we look down at the metal gates, locked and secure with a man stood the other side holding a long barrelled weapon.
‘Someone’s already here,’ Clarence says. The others clamber forward to view out the front at the gates and the person behind.
‘Someone take over from Dave,’ I call out and listen to the shuffling going on as Dave drops down and gets to the front.
‘Game plan?’ Clarence asks.
‘Let’s see who’s here first,’ I reply.
‘Just remember boss, we got a lot of mouths to feed and the pickings will just get harder.’
‘Okay mate, you and Dave with me, Blowers you’re in charge.�
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‘Got it,’ he says from somewhere behind me. Leaving the Saxon a respectable distance back the three of us drop down, leaving our rifles in the vehicle and walking towards the gates with our open hands held away from our bodies.
We walk slowly, trying to show the man we’re not a threat to him, which will be hard seeing as we’ve just slaughtered all his zombies with our big machine gun stuck on the top of our army vehicle.
He stands fast, holding the shotgun across the centre mass of his body, resting in the crooks of his arms like soldiers hold their rifles. Feet planted shoulder width below a stocky frame. As we get closer I can see his face is weathered and hard looking with very short greying hair.
‘Hi,’ I call out from a few metres back, staring at him through the links of the metal gates. He nods back but stays silent and I can imagine his gaze flicking between the odd looking characters that have just strolled up to his gate.
‘Er, we killed your zombies for you,’ the joke falls flat and he stares with a barely perceptible nod.
‘We’ve got a commune on the coast…we’re out for supplies and well…we were going to try this place, cash and carry warehouse isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ he replies with a deep voice.
‘But obviously you’re in there, have you got a large group?’
‘Enough,’ he answers.
‘Is that your handy work on the road? All the bodies piled up?’
‘It was, we we’re gonna burn up…more showed up.’
‘Yeah, they kind of keep doing that don’t they, can I approach the gate? We’re not here to threaten you or anything like that.’
‘Can’t really stop you now can I, what with my shotgun and your Saxon behind you.’
‘We’re not going to use it to force our way in, that’s not what we’re here for but we’ve got several thousand people in our fort…’