The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  Jonas pauses before answering, his face passive but his mind working quickly, ‘yeah,’ he nods gently, ‘get some weapons ready, we’ll need to work quickly, tell the lads to go for his neck and cut deep, sever an artery…stab his eyes out, but it will have to be quick you understand me?’

  ‘Yeah I got it, leave it with me,’ the man slips away, walking slowly through the wing to spread the word.

  Nine

  ‘Another fifty two just arrived,’ Reginald reports to Marcy.

  ‘Good, what are we up to now?’

  ‘Just under two thousand,’ he replies.

  ‘Reginald, that’s not very precise for you?’

  ‘On the contrary, I am aware of another group heading in and I have anticipated their numbers in advance, adding them to the sum total thus achieved and calculating there will be just under two thousand, but without the precise number of the approaching group I am unable to give an exact amount. However, if you wish the figure as it stands at this time within the boundary of the barricade then…’

  ‘Reggie! It’s fine,’ she laughs at his serious manner.

  ‘Reginald,’ he says automatically.

  ‘We’re doing well, very well, another couple of hours and we can move on.’

  ‘Marcy, I have a question if I may?’ He asks politely.

  ‘Is it about dildo’s or crotchless knickers?’

  ‘No! Please Marcy I have no desire to discuss such topics, the very thought of those…things is simply disgusting…’

  ‘Okay, calm down dear Reggie, now what was it?’

  ‘Reginald,’ he says on autopilot, ‘my question concerns the structure and manner within which you are able to choose the roles of the living challenged people that currently encompass the mass of our group.’

  ‘Pardon?’ She blinks at him, confused as to whether he made a statement or asked a question.

  ‘Putting it simply, how do you decide who is able to speak and who is unable to speak? Is it a decision based on intellect of the person, or is there some other criteria used for your decision making process. I only ask as it appears that, for the most part, the vast majority of the living challenged are unable to speak or communicate and are simply driven by their need to feast.’

  ‘In short, I don’t know,’ she replies seriously, scanning the area she takes in the various groups of undead. As Reginald said, the vast majority are inert and possess no faculties greater than the average sheep. The communicators move amongst them, they speak to the masses and to each other. Their manner is robotic and dull, just as Robbie is. No varying tone of voice, no inflection within the volume other than to express shame at a perceived failure or pleasure from a compliment given by Marcy. ‘It just seems to happen, if I need them to speak and communicate then they do, if not then they don’t.’

  ‘If you needed them all to speak would they do so?’ Reginald probes.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she shakes her head slowly, ‘Darren, I told you about him before…’

  ‘Yes I recall,’ Reginald nods.

  ‘He could see everything they saw, had access to their collective conscious and could drive them by mere will but the power corrupted him. He assumed he was the chosen one and they were there to serve him alone.’

  ‘But they…we do as you bid, it would appear we all have a connection to you.’

  ‘True, I can exert my will upon them…’ they both watch as every host body within sight turns to stare at Marcy, the masses and the communicators all ceasing their activity to stand silently. Without a word spoken they all take a step to the left, a brief pause then a step to the right, ‘I can do that by mere will, I think it…will it to happen and they do it but then it relies on my ability the whole time. I then have to think for everyone and understand every movement they make. It feels simpler to have some that can speak and communicate, somehow they have greater intelligence while still retaining a submissive manner…to be honest Reginald,’ she smiles at him, the sound suddenly coming back as the compound once more goes back to what they were doing, ‘I don’t fully understand it, not in an intellectual level, but maybe on an instinctual level.’

  ‘I see,’ he replies, ‘but I didn’t comply with the request you just made, I did not turn to face you nor did I take the side steps.’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t want you to,’ she smiles, ‘I can though if you want me to.’

  ‘No thank you,’ he replies stiffly.

  ‘Are you sure Reggie?’ She smiles as he suddenly starts walking forward, his face looking down in horror at the movement his body is taking.

  ‘Marcy! What are you doing to me?’ He calls out in alarm.

  ‘Who me?’ She answers innocently.

  ‘Marcy…please stop this…’ He begs as she pushes him towards a female undead. The female steps out from the crowd, walking towards Reginald, ‘Marcy,’ he calls with increasing concern, ‘what are you doing to me?’

  ‘Oh Reggie you should see your face,’ she laughs.

  ‘It’s Reginald,’ he shouts, staring in horror at the woman coming to stop in front of him.

  ‘Is it?’ She laughs. Reginald’s hands lift up from his body, his palms facing the woman as his hands lift towards her chest area.

  ‘Marcy…no!’ He begs, unable to stop himself from hovering his hands inches away from her breasts.

  ‘Can I call you Reggie?’ She laughs harder.

  ‘No, my name is Reginald, no…Marcy…this is improper,’ he wails as his hands draw closer to the slack jawed zombie stood staring into the distance.

  ‘Oh Reggie,’ she laughs, tears rolling down her cheeks as she clutches her stomach’

  ‘It’s Reginald,’ he shouts, ‘now please desist from this activity, it is neither funny nor is it productive.’

  ‘Productive,’ she bursts out laughing harder, bending over from the spasms heaving through her body, ‘it’s not productive,’ she mimics him.

  ‘Oh my word, my hands are touching her bosoms…Marcy I can feel her breasts and I am sure this woman does not appreciate being touched in this manner.’ Marcy doesn't reply, the sight is too much for her. She breaks the connection, watching through misted eyes as Reginald steps away, apologising profusely to the female undead, begging her forgiveness for the inappropriate action.

  ‘Oh Reggie,’ she sighs, slowly recovering her senses and wiping her cheeks as the soft chuckles keep coming.

  ‘Reginald,’ he replies sulkily, ‘please do not do that again, if you must exert your control over me please direct me to a chess board or even a Sudoku puzzle in future.’

  ‘Will do,’ she says.

  ‘But what I still am unable to fathom is why I have retained such a grasp of faculties where-as the other communicators are more like automatons, here I am, a living challenged person asking questions and having the same mental capacity as before when I was human,’ the control exerted over his body does little to dampen his curiosity as he continues, ‘are you able to explain that?’

  ‘Maybe you are what was needed at that time Reginald, someone who could think, count and take care of the hundreds of little things I don’t have time to think about.’

  ‘I see, so perhaps I am the brain to your brawn,’ he says, staring into the sky.

  ‘Brawn? I am not brawny…’

  ‘Ah, yes, perhaps brawn was the wrong word, maybe I am the brains to your beauty then, or your cunning wiles.’

  ‘So basically Reginald,’ she asks pointedly, ‘I am either brawny, or just a beauty with no intelligence.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, realising the offence he may have caused.

  ‘Ah indeed,’ she stands up, walking towards him, ‘do you want to have another grope?’ She asks.

  ‘God no thanks, and while we’re on the subject is this not maybe the right time to put your…well those things away?’ He motions his head at her chest and the cleavage still threatening to spill out.

  ‘For calling me brawny, I will be leaving them like that all day…just for
you,’ she smiles sweetly, almost laughing at he tuts and turns away.

  Marcy stares at his back while he walks off, the little man with the sensible haircut plucking at his sleeves to straighten them out and pushing his glasses up his nose. Despite his almost insolent manner she feels nothing but warm regard for the way he speaks to her, like having a prudish uncle around, constantly berating her for showing too much skin.

  The High Street fills as groups are led back by the communicators, hundreds of hosts turned with the minimum of injuries inflicted. She watches their steady shuffle as they follow each other into the area, being directed into the various shops and stores to keep them out of the glaring sun.

  For the most part they look fresh, the days of getting by on limited food had reduced some body fat, causing some of them to become weak and looking emaciated. Some faring better than others with a motley collection of clean, dressed ex-survivors and be-draggled specimens that didn’t look too far from natural death.

  It was surprising to Marcy just how many had survived the outbreak. Hiding in their homes and praying to go unnoticed until the nightmare ends.

  The advancement of the intelligence the infection allowed the host to retain was further assisting the cause. Those freshly turned were able to lead the others to those they knew were also hiding, and so it was that the main town was steadily purged of all human forms with very few losses.

  Ten

  ‘How we doing?’ Jonas asks, walking back into the room. The men had worked all through the night, taking it in turns to hammer at the solid wall with whatever makeshift tools they could find. The shower pipes were soon discarded, the metal too soft and pliable to sustain the constant battering.

  ‘Three walls of concrete fucking blocks, the stupid fucking cunts built this fucking prison to last,’ someone says, spitting dust and filth from their mouth.

  ‘It was used to house terrorists back in the day,’ Jonas shrugs, ‘it had to be secure.’

  ‘What like fucking Alkyeeda?’

  ‘No you twat, this was well before them…Irish terrorism was the flavour back then.’

  ‘Careful what you say now fella’s,’ a tall man stands up straight, his strong Irish accent carrying clearly down the room.

  ‘I don’t give a mother-fucking shit about your fucking terrorists, you having a fucking political chat about the formation of this institution or are we about to perpetrate the greatest mother-fucking prison break-out this country has ever seen?’ Randall strides about the room, glaring at the sweat and grime encrusted men taking a break, ‘get your mother-fucking backs into it,’ he rages, eyes wide and bulging out nearly as much as the veins on his arms.

  ‘We’ll be putting something in his back soon enough,’ someone whispers quietly to Jonas.

  ‘Ssshh now, he’s doing a good job,’ Jonas replies, ‘looks like they’re on the last wall now.’

  ‘Yeah but Jonas, they’ve only made a small hole, no one can fit through that.’

  ‘True enough, but once they see the light on the other side they’ll work faster and tear those walls down with their bare hands. Jonas watches carefully as the men work at the deep hole. Two layers of concrete block already hacked through to reveal the third and final layer. Some of the gym machines had been ripped apart, any length of metal being brought to the outer wall. Many of them, like the iron pipes, had proved completely insufficient but for the first time since the outbreak began, every man within the five wings works together. Black sweated alongside white, Catholic worked with Muslim, racists grunted with effort as they gripped the bars with militants.

  One more glaring thing stood out, and that was the way every man revered Randall. Even the truly psychotic killers found it difficult to oppose his explosive character. The force of the man was staggering and it worried Jonas. Made him concerned that when the time came they would find greater opposition than initially planned for.

  Pursing his lips with concentration, Jonas thought through the anticipated action. Maybe it would be better to do it now, lure Randall away somewhere and have him done in, but no, that would raise immediate questions and cause more violence. At the point of getting out, but that would see all the men in one place, and an act like that just couldn’t be done unnoticed.

  Maybe it didn’t need to be done, they could simply part company and move away quickly. But leaving Randall on the loose would not only be a danger to them, but to mankind in general. Jonas was a killer and had taken many lives despite only being convicted for the one murder. But the killings he carried out were on people who knew the business they were in, it was bad play to kill someone unconnected, not simply for the bad press it drew but it was just morally wrong.

  Same as having Randall on the loose would be morally wrong. He’d find the nearest town and decimate it. Tear the place apart and have every woman turned into his sex slaves within hours. Shit, most of the men would do that given the chance but Randall…well he was something else. Jonas just knew that to leave Randall alive would only invite trouble.

  ‘We almost there you nasty sons of bitches, get your mother-fucking hands on that bar and drive it in, come on man drive that bar in, command that wall to break, we so close now I can just see them mother-fucking titties on the other side of that wall. A big ass pair of juicy titties all ready to suck on, they waiting for you, get that wall down,’ Randall urges the men to work harder, the exhaustion clear on their faces. Days of hardly eating, sleepless nights and constant fighting had weakened them. Still they grinned like fools at the idiotic chanting the man threw at them. His enthusiasm was infectious, that hard edged American voice speaking like a full on gangster from the movies.

  ‘Oh there it is, the last bit of mother-fucking wall, I told you we would break this wall, I told your dumb asses this mother-fucking wall could not withstand us, hit it….hit it harder, drive that bar in…come on, one two three, strike! One two three, strike! Put some mother-fucking energy into it, come on now one two three, strike that wall! Oh baby there it is, the outside is there…look at the world beyond your wall you crazy motherfuckers.’ The bar drops with a clang as an almighty cheer erupted. Men flooding into the room, desperate to peer through the tiny hole in the wall and the clear sky beyond it. Handshakes took place, men patted each other’s shoulders, Randall stands back with his arms crossed, feet planted wide apart and grinning like a maniac.

  ‘Come on now you bitches, this ain't over, this ain't no mother-fucking time to be stroking each other, get that bar up and smash that hole like it’s some mother-fucking pussy.’

  ‘Told you,’ Jonas sighs watching the men grab the bars with renewed energy, buzzing with adrenalin. They throw themselves into the effort, slamming the bars into the gap, sending chunks of masonry and concrete flipping into the room. The hole widened, bit by painstaking bit it got bigger. What first could fit a pencil through was soon large enough for a fist, aggressive shouts scream out, hands bleed onto the bar as the blisters formed on the sweaty palms rip open.

  ‘Now hold on you motherfuckers,’ Randall bellows, the men pause, breathing hard from the exertion. He moves to the wall, leaning through the now formidable dent and pushing his bald head through the hole, ‘I see something,’ he yells. Drawing back in he stares at the men watching him expectantly, ‘I see big juicy titties out there,’ he grins, an explosion of laughter bursting in the room. Jonas looks sharply at the man stood next to him grinning like a fool, ‘sorry Jonas,’ the man stifles his smile, looking awkwardly at the floor.

  ‘Not long now, is everyone ready?’ Jonas asks after a weighted pause.

  ‘Yeah, tooled up and ready,’ the man nods respectfully, ‘so where we going, when we get out like?’

  ‘Mainland, we’ll go for a city, get some supplies and work it out from there once we see just how bad it is.’

  ‘Never thought I’d see the outside,’ the man says quietly, a double life sentence for multiple murder meant he’d be in his eighties before he could even be considered for release, and
he also knew that many inmates simply didn’t reach that age.

  ‘Same for most of us,’ Jonas replies, ‘not exactly the freedom we had in mind, but…’

  ‘Fucking hell Jonas, anything’s better than this shit hole. Listen are we doing him as soon as we get outside, only I was thinking that we still got the outer wall to go yet and that fucker’s covered in bastard razor wire.’

  ‘I want him done as soon as we get out of the prison,’ Jonas says quickly.

  ‘I get what you’re saying Jonas but think about it, that fucker gets ‘em going good, we should let him get that outer wall down before we do him.’

  ‘That outer wall,’ Jonas stares hard at the man, ‘is reinforced concrete, you know what that means? Means it’s got solid steel running through it, there ain't no way anyone is getting that wall down unless we find a fucking bulldozer.’

  ‘What you motherfuckers talking about?’ Randall marches at them, glaring suspiciously.

  ‘The outer wall, Jonas says it’s reinforced concrete,’ the man says smoothly, ‘got steel wire running through it…’

  ‘I know what reinforced means you dumb motherfucker,’ Randall shakes his head at the audacity of it.

  ‘A barbell ain't gonna get that wall down Randall,’ Jonas says.

  ‘You got a plan then?’ Randall asks, his voice transforming to a quiet respectful tone.

  ‘Yep,’ Jonas nods, locking eyes with the American.

  ‘And you ain't gonna share it with no dangerous motherfucker like me are you Jonas? No sir, you gonna keep that plan tucked up tight in that brain.’

  ‘You got it,’ Jonas smiles without a trace of humour in his eyes.

  ‘I’d do the same,’ Randall shrugs, holding eye contact with Jonas, ‘just don’t be thinking of double crossing me Jonas, I got mother-fucking eyes in the back of my mother-fucking head.’

  ‘Sure you have Randall,’ Jonas nods.

  ‘We should team up once we get out, me and you Jonas, we can rule the mother-fucking roost, ain’t no motherfucker can stop us if we work together.’