The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  ‘What’s wrong?’ April asks, watching as he staggers back, falling to the floor and writhing. The men look over with concern as another one drops down holding his mid-section.

  ‘What have you done?’ April asks, staring at the men like they’ve done something wrong. They look at each other, some of them dropping down to help the injured inmates. Others take advantage of the distraction to get the girls sole attention.

  The inmates writhe on the ground, agonising pain ripping through their bodies. Another one drops, then another one. Randall stares with wide eyes, watching as the men drop to the ground. A few men still pay no attention and carry on groping at the girls, too heated and turned on to realise what’s going on around them.

  One by one they drop. The first inmate breathes slower, his body fighting for life and giving up. He dies quietly, the pain preventing him from calling out. More die, the infection coursing through their systems. The women stand back, watching with plain faces as the men writhe and die.

  Randall stares with morbid interest, watching as the first inmate to die starts twitching, like an electric current is being passed through him. He sits up, making Randall think he’s alright. The man stands, his movements slow and awkward. The distance too great for Randall to see the eyes, but the motion of the man is stark. Clumsy and stumbling, like drunk or something.

  Others start to twitch, doing the same as the first man. They too start sitting up, all of them copying the actions as they clamber to their feet. None of them speak, none of the girls says a word, they just stand and watch. As the last stands up they all turn and walk off, no order or command given. Just an instant thing of them all turning to walk away. The inmates all walking with that slow awkward shuffling motion.

  Randall watches them walk away, knowing what he just saw but refusing to believe it.

  Sixteen

  ‘Do you understand what this means?’ Marcy demands, staring hard at Reginald.

  ‘Yes of course,’ he nods, his face looking shocked.

  ‘We’re not the disease, we’re the cure.’

  Her own words send her reeling. The greater intelligence the infection had given her had left a very distant and deep nagging doubt that maybe they were the modern day version of the plague. The voice was buried deep, not heard but more felt but this, this blew that out of the water with such finality that it rocked every belief she ever had. God, the Devil, Religion…nothing made sense. She looks at the vast crowd, the thousands of people stood watching her. Silent and dignified.

  ‘Marcy that is just one illness, it may not mean that all illnesses are…cured,’ he suggests gently.

  ‘Of course, I understand that…but the implication is…I’m…’

  ‘Lost for words is perhaps the phrase I believe you are looking for.’

  ‘Reggie, I need you to be sensible here, I can feel a sense of excitement, an absurd but incredible feeling inside me…you must remain grounded and tell me if I start to show any of the same tendencies that Darren did…if it looks like I’m losing it then you have my full consent to take what action you deem appropriate.’

  ‘Of course Marcy,’ he bows his head, expressing sincerity.

  ‘What else do we have here? Did any of you require medication for any illnesses?’ Several hands lift up, still abiding by her instruction to use hands instead of voices.

  ‘You, what did you have?’

  ‘Asthma,’ the woman replies.

  ‘Any you had medication for it?’

  ‘Yes Marcy.’

  ‘Everyday?’

  ‘Yes Marcy.’

  ‘What about now?’

  ‘I don’t know Marcy, I was turned last night.’

  ‘Too soon,’ Reginald says.

  ‘Okay, you what did you have?’

  ‘Schizophrenia,’ the man replies in the same flat tone.

  ‘Really? Oh…and you had medication for that?’

  ‘Yes Marcy.’

  ‘How long have you been turned?’

  ‘I was turned yesterday morning.’

  ‘What happened if you didn’t take the medication?’

  ‘Nothing at first, the effects would take a few days to show.’

  ‘Too soon again,’ Reginald repeats.

  ‘Can you tell if there’s any difference?’ She asks the man.

  ‘I feel fine Marcy.’

  ‘Different to before?’

  ‘Marcy, that is not a fair question. We all feel different to how we did before the turning,’ Reginald cuts in.

  ‘Okay, you, what did you have,’ she asks the last man stood with his arm up.

  ‘Anti-depressants.’

  ‘Discounted, that is a behavioural issue that takes time to manifest,’ Reginald says.

  ‘I agree,’ Marcy sighs, looking at the crowd and wishing there was a way she could connect with them like Darren said he could.

  ‘Marcy, if some of our living challenged can talk then are you able to isolate that feeling you have at the time of them turning and use it now? Do you have the ability to make others talk?’

  ‘No,’ she shakes her head, ‘it’s at the point of turning and I didn’t infect some of these communicators, it wasn’t my infection that got into them.’

  ‘But you infected the first ones than in turn went off and infected others, so it is your strain of the infection that is transmitted to them.’

  ‘Reggie, we could all carry a different strain of it, Darren could have had something different to what I have, you could be different to me…I just don’t know enough about it, come on,’ they start walking across the grounds to the other prison.

  ‘I do not think that is logical, we all have the same infection that gives us the urge to bite human flesh,’ Reginald says slowly, ‘I understand your concept that the infection could mutate in some way with each individual it passes through but ultimately it would be the same infection, although, I hasten to add, this is pure conjecture on my part and I would further suggest that neither of us have the medical or scientific knowledge to understand it.’

  ‘You’re right, but he said he doesn't have diabetes anymore.’

  ‘He may well have said that, but only time will tell if indeed he does suffer from a diabetic attack.’

  ‘Darren had a large group with him, none of them dropped from anything other than the injuries that were inflicted.’

  ‘Be that as it may, we cannot form a judgement based on what we think we know.’

  ‘And I suppose we’re still in the early days, all of these have only been turned since yesterday,’ Marcy says.

  ‘Exactly, I am sure that what you are saying is correct, that the infection somehow cures other diseases but we cannot prove it, nor can we say for certain that is the case.’

  ‘That gate's open too,’ Marcy says, peering up the road to the entrance to the mainstream prison. ‘Can you smell that?’

  ‘I can indeed smell that Marcy,’ Reginald replies. The scent of blood hangs in the air, fresh blood and from somewhere close by, a strong smell mixed with the stench of the living. Reaching the open gate they pause as Marcy examines the area.

  ‘It’s coming from that way too,’ she says indicating up the road. She leads a small group inside the gates, following the smell round the corner of the building to the concrete area where the bodies of the recently fallen inmates lay.

  ‘Fresh,’ Marcy looks down at a corpse, the blood still wet on the body and sticky pools on the ground.

  ‘Very,’ Reginald nods, ‘It would appear they have broken out of their confinement using that hole in the wall, had a fight following which the victors have gone up the road.’

  ‘You should have been a detective,’ Marcy says drily, ‘how on earth did you deduce that.’

  ‘From the hole in the wall and the bodies on the ground and…’

  ‘Yes Reggie, I was being sarcastic.’

  ‘Reginald, and I noted your sarcasm and chose to ignore it.’

  ‘April, the inmates must be close, ta
ke the girls and find them.’

  ‘Yes Marcy.’

  Marcy moves from body to body, examining the wounds on each one. Her head shaking at the violence they have wrought on each other.

  ‘And they think we’re the violent ones, the bad species that needs wiping out,’ she says out loud, ‘I would bet my life that not one zombie has…’

  ‘Ahem,’ Reginald coughs.

  ‘Yes okay, not one living challenged has turned on another like this.’

  ‘This one is alive,’ one of the male communicators states. Marcy heads over, stepping round and over the bodies. She looks down at the body, a large built male that had been bleeding heavily from a stomach wound. She drops down, probing at the stomach of the unconscious male, ‘stabbed,’ she grips a small plastic handle and pulls quickly. The object sucks noisily as it retracts from the skin, holding it up she looks at the item. A standard toothbrush with the handle filed to a sharp point.

  Standing up she watches the body for several seconds, looking at the shallow rise and fall of the man’s chest. His face looks beaten and bloodied, nose broken, swollen eye and mouth. She pushes her foot into his side, nudging the body.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Reginald asks. She ignores him and nudges harder, driving her foot into his ribs which causes no reaction. Dropping down again she opens his eyes, peering at his pupils, she leans back and lightly presses her finger into the stomach wound.

  ‘He couldn’t fake that,’ she says as he shows no reaction.

  ‘Fake what exactly?’ Reginald asks.

  ‘Fake being unconscious, my finger is inside his wound now.’

  ‘And precisely why would he fake being unconscious?’

  ‘No reason, I just wanted to be sure…so you agree, this man is definitely unconscious.’

  ‘Yes it would appear that he is, although again, I am, and neither are you, a medically trained professional.’

  She leans over his stomach, pulling his shirt back to reveal the pasty hairy skin of his torso. Hovering over the puckered wound she draws a mouthful of saliva and lets it fall in, holding her hair back with one hand to prevent it getting covered in his blood. Once finished spitting she rubs the saliva into the wound, pushing it into the lacerated skin.

  Standing back she watches with interest. The man stays the same as before with no discernible change. After a minute his breathing becomes laboured, slowing until his chest ceases to rise.

  ‘Dead?’ Marcy asks.

  ‘Dead.’ Reginald confirms.

  They watch patiently, eyes fixed on the corpse. Marcy giving a big grin when it starts twitching, the convulsions start until the undead sits up and opens his eyes.

  ‘Can you speak?’ Marcy asks. The undead inmate stares up at her, saliva starting to drop from his swollen mouth.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no then,’ she adds.

  ‘Marcy, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but that experiment did not prove anything other than you were able to turn an unconscious man. He may well have regained consciousness on his own.’

  ‘But, it does show an element of recovery, his brain had shut down from his injuries…isn’t that what happens when you become unconscious? The brain shuts down?’

  ‘I can only answer that I think that to be the case, but again I am unable to answer confidently.’

  ‘But the infection brought him out of it.’

  ‘After killing him first and then re-starting him.’

  ‘He’s not a car Reggie,’ Marcy sighs.

  ‘I agree the infection is a wonderful thing, my intrinsic desire is to love the infection and you along with it, but the intellectual part of me knows that I am now programmed to believe that…as are all of them,’ he casts his arm at the undead gathered nearby and the rest shuffling in through the gates.

  Marcy falls quiet, absorbing his words. Reginald was right, she wanted to believe in the possibility that the infection cured everything but she knew caution was necessary. The infection was powerful enough to mask pain, the simple overriding command was to take more hosts, at any cost. But therein lies the problem, what happens when the last human is taken? What then? The infection could keep the bodies going for some time, maybe weeks, months or even a year or two but without food and water the body will perish.

  Other species could be taken, they could start on the animal kingdom but they too would turn on each other until they are as exhausted and depleted as the human race.

  The infection is finite. In the current state it can never achieve the ultimate objective of survival, simply because it will eventually exhaust all other hosts. And when the last living creature is turned, be that a cat, dog, fish or any creature then it reaches extinction.

  Doomed from the outset. Never destined to succeed. With that in mind the thought of the effort to keep going and turn more hosts seems futile. What’s the point? We’re all fucked anyway.

  No, there has to be another way. There has to be a reason for this, and a solution.

  ‘Marcy, April has returned with the inmates,’ Reginald says softly, not wishing to interrupt her meditations.

  She nods, still staring into the distance. Existence is suffering, the futility of it now seems absurd. To keep going, to take the humans and turn them, just so they can die. That isn’t right. But her instinct is screaming inside that there is another way. She is the key, and any others like her, Reginald for instance, or Darren, they all show there can be another way. The infection has allowed her to keep her own personality and thought processes. Reginald too. There must be others like her around the country and across the world. The infection must be advancing others to the same level she is. If the infection can do this, can evolve to the extent that the host retains normalcy and in doing so it can put the body into a perfect state of being, killing off any other infections, diseases or virus’s then why shouldn’t the hosts evolve further?. Become more human, eat, drink, procreate and continue life as before. But without the suffering. Without the disease. Without the violence, jealousy and hatred.

  ‘We’re going,’ she says out loud, striding towards the gate she notices the freshly taken inmates and the sorry state they’re in. Glancing back at the bodies on the ground she shakes her head with disgust, ‘animals,’ she mutters as she walks past. The inmates sense her displeasure, dropping their heads as a feeling of shame blooms inside them. Reginald stalks behind Marcy, shaking his head and tutting at them, the communicators follow, also casting looks of dissatisfaction. The prisoners file in behind them, merging with the general crowd as Marcy turns to head up the road, away from the main road.

  ‘Where are we going? The main road is the other direction,’ Reginald asks.

  ‘The prison estates are this way.’

  ‘I understand,’ Reginald nods, sensing she has more to say.

  ‘Reggie,’ she starts, her voice slow as she thinks her words out loud, ‘we’ve already proven it’s possible to suppress the urge to bite, yes?’

  ‘Yes that is possible, the inmates just taken prove that to be the case, the injuries sustained are from their previous fighting. None of them have fresh bite marks, in fact of all the hosts we’ve taken none of them have anything greater than a simple bite.’

  ‘So the urge to eat flesh, that…thing…that makes us want to tear flesh open and destroy can be controlled. I do not feel as though I am decaying, I saw hosts that had been turned at the very start and they were rotting with every passing hour, even Darren showed signs of it. But my skin feels the same as before, and I’ve noticed that the hair on my legs and under my arms continues to grow so my body is continuing in the normal way.’

  ‘I agree,’ he nods, staring at her, ‘I too, although I have not been turned as long as you, have not felt any decay…’

  ‘And you’re stubble is growing.’

  ‘Yes I was about to add that, I am in need of a shave.’

  ‘So the infection has withdrawn to a very low state within us, we need to find a way of doing that with everyone. Har
nessing the power of the infection while minimising the negative side effects.’

  ‘Like eating people.’

  ‘Yes, that for a start,’ she smiles at his quip, ‘but that is beyond us.’

  ‘We have neither the knowledge or facilities to undertake something of that nature, moreover what you are suggesting would require us making contact with humans and allowing tests to be conducted…’

  ‘But all those facilities are probably now destroyed, or the doctors that ran them are dead or turned already. Unless…’

  ‘Unless what?’ Reginald asks.

  ‘Howie said something to me, it’s stuck in my mind.’

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘No, just a snatched conversation while Darren was trying to kill him, anyway – he said they had doctors and equipment and that seeing as I could talk they might be able to find a cure, he offered to take me in.’

  ‘Now that I do not believe,’ Reginald chuckles, ‘I am sure he would say anything to get you, or Darren, for that matter to present yourselves so they could kill you.’

  ‘No,’ she shakes her head, ‘he meant it, if I had walked up those steps and surrendered he would have taken me in.’

  ‘Why? You told me he swore to end every last one of us.’

  ‘Darren kept saying he was so good, so self-righteous that it made him want to puke. Even then, in that stairwell when we we’re throwing everything at him he spoke with kindness and humility and his lads were doing everything they could to wind Darren up,’ she laughs with the memory, ‘I shouldn’t laugh but looking back it was rather comical.’

  They turn the corner, Reginald stopping to stare down at the ground, ‘excuse me Marcy,’ he apologises, ‘who left their knickers here?’ He turns to the horde behind him, looking at April stood in front of her girls.

  One of them steps forward, a gorgeous brunette wearing a knee length summer dress.

  ‘Put them back on please,’ Reginald sniffs, ‘we may be the scourge of mankind but we shall not wonder about without our underwear on, that is not proper…yes well done, pick them and…oh my word young lady I did not mean you to hitch your skirt up and put them on now,’ Reginald turns away blushing from the flash he received from the woman pulling her dress up.