The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  The infection withdrew but it left one desire paramount within the host. That it did whatever was necessary to sustain the infection.

  One host was chosen to do this. One host that had been involved with huge losses but had survived. One host that was allowed to continue as they chose.

  The infection watched this host carefully and, without the conscious thought of a living entity, it realised this host was different.

  As the host progressed and turned more hosts, so the infection allowed those newly infected bodies to remain in the normal state without decay, without odour, without decomposition.

  This group was as close to human as possible and under the guidance of one very special host.

  Marcy.

  Five

  ‘How many?’ She asks.

  His face remains passive but he answers quickly, ‘ninety eight.’

  ‘There was over a hundred in there?’ She replies, her pace purposefully quick, striding down the centre of the road and making them keep up with her.

  ‘We lost some,’ he answers with the same passive expression but his tone respectful.

  ‘Lost some?’ She swallows it down. Losses were inevitable, they were going to happen time and time again. Ninety eight was a good number and a few losses were acceptable. ‘Good work, well done I’m pleased,’ she nods at him. He remains passive but she knew the pleasure receptors within him would be tingling from her compliment.

  ‘And you?’ She turns to the man walking on her other side.

  He nods eagerly, itching to impress her but waiting until invited to speak, ‘two hundred and twenty six.’

  ‘Well done that’s very good, an excellent result,’ she nods with respect watching his chest swell with pride. Glancing across he saw the other man also nodding with respect at him.

  ‘Barry?’ She asks, keeping her eyes forward and scanning the road ahead. Another man trotted forward, taking place at her side.

  ‘Not so good, we only got fifty two,’ he replies with shame.

  ‘It’s still good Barry, you had a smaller area, we knew your results wouldn’t be as high as the others but fifty eight is still a good number, did you have any difficulties?’

  ‘Some resistance but mostly it went well,’ Barry answers.

  ‘And losses?’ She asks him, her tone not accusing but interested.

  He too thought for a second before replying, not fearful of giving the answer but the sense of shame evident on his face, ‘twelve,’ he replies quietly.

  ‘Twelve? That’s quite high for such a small reward, how did they happen?’ She asks. The other men stare at Barry with looks of sympathy and interest. Twelve was a high loss for only taking fifty eight.

  ‘They were armed with some organisation.’

  ‘I see, and how did you counteract that?’

  ‘As you advised,’ Barry says quickly, ‘we sent the children in first, it made them pause long enough to get some to the rear and attack both sides at once, after that it was easy.’

  ‘Good work, so you lost twelve but we gained fifty eight and we learnt a lesson, they don’t like killing the small ones.’

  ‘No Marcy.’

  ‘April, how many?’ Marcy calls out. She keeps walking fast, forcing the others to keep up with her relentless pace on the wide road bordered by high hedgerows and lush green fields and a permanent sun shimmer hovering over the asphalt ahead of them.

  ‘We took eighty nine from my area, Clare didn’t make it though, she got forty nine but she was taken.’

  Marcy scowls, a frown forming across her sultry brow, ‘shame, Clare was good, we will honour her passing.’

  ‘Yes Marcy,’ April replies.

  ‘Good work April.’ They walk on, Marcy calling them forward one at a time to give the results of their takings. With each one she feels the numbers increase, the swelling of the horde.

  She had stood and watched first as the boats left, taking the women and children away from the Isle of Wight, then later as Howie and his group took the boat moored at the end of the pier. She had expected him to come for her, expected another battle and was ready to flee. But he didn’t come, instead he left. She didn’t feel any sense of rage against Howie, in fact quite the opposite. Marcy respected Howie and his abilities. Unlike Darren who had been blinded by personal obsession she knew what a fearsome leader Howie was. She listened and watched as Howie fought through the church and down the road until the daylight came.

  Things had to change. Hers was a new species and one that would quickly die out unless it changed and evolved. The infection within her understood her desire to succeed and gave her greater freedom to use her own intellect.

  Communication was the key. Without communication they would never be able to organise themselves and it would continue with the masses of the new species all working separately.

  Darren had collective communication, like a hive mind. But he was unable to cope with it, seeing that power purely as an extension to his own ego. That was his biggest mistake. This was never about Darren, this was about the new species and they had to work together.

  Working quickly, relying on her amazing beauty and the knowledge that other than her eyes there was no way of knowing she had been turned, she found survivors. By covering those red bloodshot eyes with sunglasses she got close enough to take them. Within a few hours she had a small horde formed, but that was enough.

  That small horde she gathered, those few who stood with her, staring at their leader with love, awe and fierce loyalty were different. They could all speak and communicate. The infection, without conscious thought, enabled Marcy to choose her own personnel.

  Marcy knew she didn’t need the same powers that Darren had, she didn’t need their collective conscious clogging her mind, she didn’t need to feel what they felt, or see what they saw. She simply needed them to be submissive, to do as told and be able to communicate back. Marcy also understood that where free thought reigned, so too would there be greed, jealousy and a hunger for power. The infection knew that all of those things were controlled by chemicals. The infection had already learnt what chemicals to release to make the masses adore certain hosts, and it had done with Darren and many more across the world.

  The infection gave Marcy what she desired. This was an experiment to push that evolution far harder than ever before.

  Like a single seed within a field, Marcy sent those few out with strict instruction to only cause enough injury to turn the survivor and limit the damage to the host body. Their hunger for flesh was only held in check by the awe they held for Marcy. Desperate to please their leader they went off, turning small groups and leading them back to Marcy.

  As the numbers grew, so did her need for greater communication. More were enabled to speak and communicate. Each one becoming submissive to her status of unquestionable supremacy. As Maddox denoted powers to the crew chiefs, Marcy created generals within her army. Sending the communicators out with small groups into pre-defined areas.

  The results were staggering. Communicators were given streets, going from house to house and turning every survivor they found. A wave swept through that town, a devastating tsunami that grew in power, volume and strength with every passing hour.

  As the freshly turned hosts were led back to Marcy, so more communicators were sent out. The massed infected stayed with Marcy, following her every movement from a respectable distance. Within a few hours of the tenth day, Marcy had hundreds of pairs of eyes staring at her with unbridled loyalty. The system worked far better than anything else tried already.

  That town was turned. The whole of the place was exhausted. The battle with Howie had already caused the losses of many but now with the communicators working every street it wasn’t long before they were ready to move on.

  At the end of the tenth day, Marcy led that horde along the main road and into the next village. Using a simple street map book she sent groups out ahead and to the sides. They knew what to do, find and turn the survivors and re-join th
e main group.

  Marcy kept her pace slow. Throughout the night she kept them working, holding herself at the head of the ever growing horde. Communicators returned to the line, getting their hosts into the main body before heading to the front and relaying the results to Marcy.

  Now, early morning on the eleventh day, Marcy marches down the wide road with the long horde stretched out behind her, heading towards the central main town. The communicators constantly moving to the front and reporting the results.

  Some were good, some were outstanding and those were given high praise. The losses were also reported and this was done as an act of Marcy making the communicators feel responsible and suffer the shame of having to say those losses in front of the others.

  The communicators felt an allegiance to each other, showing respect and sympathy in equal measure.

  ‘How many now?’ Marcy asks a bespectacled undead male walking just behind her.

  ‘One thousand, two hundred and thirty nine taken with sixty three losses during the night,’ he replies instantly.

  ‘Good. Very good.’ Marcy flicks an arm at a row of stone built cottages set back from the main road. ‘Barry, take them,’ she calls out. Barry reacts instantly, dropping back to gather a small group before peeling off towards the access lane.

  She presses on, leading the undead army down the hot road. Sweat forms on her brow as she feels the pull of the hunger. Being in the central command position meant she had not taken any survivors herself but she also knew that no matter how many she took, the hunger would be there relentless and sustained. The main town ahead contained the commercial and industrial centres of the Island and a densely packed residential area. Marcy knew the yield would be high, but only if it was done right.

  ‘Take the school,’ she sent another one scurrying to the rear to select a small horde before moving off towards the square brick built buildings set further back from the road. The chances of anyone being in the school were remote but it was worth a go.

  The road wound through the fields and hedgerows, passing cottages, farms and dwellings. Each time a communicator was dispatched to search them. The undead moved with purpose, expending vital energy during the hours of daylight but the results were worth it.

  Marcy smiled to herself, the satisfaction from doing something right. The power was incredible but not corrupting. She sensed how easy it would be to slip and foolishly think this was all hers, her army for her purpose, to do with as she pleased. But it wasn’t, it was for the survival of the species. She thought back to Darren, how she had made him wear the jeans tucked into the boots, how she confused the old world with the new. Clinging to old fancies that simply didn’t translate into this new existence.

  Darren hadn’t been sent to find her; this wasn’t an act of planning by some forward thinking ideal. It was simply fate that brought Darren to the hotel she was hiding in and to think otherwise would allow that corruption to take root.

  She stared ahead, her eyes scanning the route as the road opened out at the mouth of the large roundabout. Coming to a stop she took the sight in, processing the information as the plans formed in her mind.

  To the left of the roundabout was a large leisure centre with a cinema, to the right was a wide road leading away from the town. Ahead was the town centre. The junction of the High Street presented to the edge of the roundabout. She stared at the junction, a small wry smile twitching on her perfect lips at the sight of the barricade stretched across it.

  The survivors had thought ahead and taken the commercial heart of the area. The shops within that zone would contain everything they needed to keep going, supermarkets, convenience stores, chemists, medical centre. The old mediaeval town had narrow streets leading in, perfectly suited to be blocked and sealed.

  The wide junction here at the High Street was filled with trucks, vans, cars, wooden pallets and all manner of objects stacked high.

  ‘Interesting,’ she muses with one raised eyebrow and a slight pout, ‘now, what would Darren do?’

  ‘I never met him,’ the bespectacled male answers, ‘but I would imagine he would have a full frontal attack that would incur heavy losses.’

  Marcy smiles at the answer, showing her even white teeth. Her skin retained the natural tone, the infection having drawn back as much as possible and allowing her own body to function in much the normal way, ‘I would say that is right, he would spout a load of vile abuse then charge wildly while laughing like a maniac.’ The High Street is long and mostly straight, with smaller roads feeding into it, that meant more barricades which would be manned and controlled.

  ‘April, take them round the back of the cinema building, find a fire exit and get them inside out of the sun. Find water and make sure they drink, they’ll hate it but they need fluids to sustain energy.’

  ‘Yes Marcy,’ April replies, turning round she marches quickly back to the horde. The will of Marcy is pressed upon them without conscious thought. They simply comply with what is required. To follow April where she leads them and do as told until otherwise informed.

  The horde would follow the instruction without April leading them, but they wouldn’t be able to communicate any dangers and would be at risk of acting without guidance. By using April, Marcy is assuring the horde will be not only led safely, but directed in the event of something happening, which can then be reported back to Marcy in a logical manner. Simple but effective.

  The horde move off, leaving Marcy with her communicators. They stand patiently as their leader examines the barricade ahead.

  ‘Spread out and work your way to the junctions, do it discretely, do not engage any survivors unless you’re cornered or trapped. Wait at the junctions, if you do get trapped do not let them hear you speak.’ Marcy relays the instruction, watching as the undead move off in different directions. She knows they’ll melt into the background and slowly make their way into the town centre.

  ‘And me?’ the bespectacled male asks.

  She stares at the man, looking at his straight cut brown hair and his long sleeve white button up shirt still tucked tidily into his trousers, ‘you Reginald,’ she muses, ‘you come with me.’

  They skirt round the edge of the roundabout, going behind the cinema building still being accessed by April leading the horde to shade. Across a car park and onto a town access road with junctions leading into the sealed off area.

  They keep low, moving carefully from building to building, using abandoned vehicles for cover and stopping every few metres to check for movement. Reaching the next junction Marcy looks down the road, noting that the survivors have used the natural building line to form the barricade. After watching for a while she decides this barricade doesn't allow access or egress and is just a solid wall across the road.

  Working down the road further they find the next junction, and the next barricade. The same format applied here with the building line used to create a sheer wall. The doors and windows of the buildings attached to the sealed off area have been carefully boarded up with thick sheets of freshly cut ply board securely fastened in place. Doors screwed and bolted closed.

  There are definitely survivors inside, the smell of them permeates the air. The stench of many humans living in one area, cooking, eating, shitting, pissing, fucking. Their tempting scent is everywhere, wafting on the warm currents of air sent up from the heat they generate.

  ‘The fear isn’t that strong,’ she whispers to Reginald.

  ‘No Marcy.’

  ‘Eleven days in relative safety has lulled them into a false sense of security. They must have strong men inside, probably armed and ready to defend their territory. Food, clothing and shelter…there must be organisation too, a hierarchy within. Otherwise they’d be petrified…’ her voice trails off as her monologue reverts to an internal discussion. Organisation meant there would be guards on every point of access, armed guards that were vigilant and ready. No, an all-out attack would never win this. Well maybe they would win but the cost would be great, so
why suffer high losses if there was another way?

  ‘How are they getting in and out? There must be a point of access…and where are all the zombies? Oh don’t flinch Reggie.’

  ‘I don’t like that word,’ he replies haughtily.

  ‘It’s what we are my dear.’

  ‘I prefer the term living challenged.’

  ‘Living challenged?’

  ‘Yes Marcy, living challenged, we are not zombies, zombies cannot speak or organise, they simply want to devour brains and we are more than that.’

  ‘Are we?’ she asks with a wry smile.

  ‘Far more.’

  ‘So you don’t want to eat any brains then?’

  ‘On the contrary, I do want to eat brains, I want to eat brains as much as the next one but that is not all I desire.’

  ‘What else do you desire Reggie?’

  ‘I desire to be called by my full and proper name for a start, which is Reginald, not Reggie. I am not a London gangster, nor am I your local refuse collector happily whistling away while I collect your bins, to wit I do not like my name to be abbreviated to Reggie or Reg but simply Reginald.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Of course, I have a whole host of desires. I desire many things, some of which I shall never be able to achieve.’

  ‘Such as?’ She asks unable to refrain herself from prying further.

  He stood upright, straightening his sleeves and smoothing his shirt front down, ‘I desire immortality but that can never be achieved, I long desired to be desirable to members of the opposite gender but again that was never achieved…’

  ‘Oh a life lived in regret then Reggie? I mean Reginald.’

  ‘Thank you, quite the opposite I would say. I devoted my, albeit short life, to study and the advancement of my mind which I found to be most satisfying.’

  ‘So you didn’t get any.’

  He pretends to ignore the point, ‘any what?’

  ‘Did you die a virgin?’

  ‘Marcy, there are two points to that question, firstly I believe that when you die you are dead. We are not dead, we’re walking, talking and breathing so I would question the validity of saying we are dead, secondly…yes I am still a virgin but be that neither here nor there I had plenty of opportunities but it was through choice that I retained that title that so many of this generation find a thing of distaste.’