by RR Haywood
‘You are fucking joking right? This coming from the mother-fucking Hells Angel that just stabbed a mother-fucking girl to death while fucking her.’
He shrugs and keeps walking, not a flicker of emotion on his face.
‘He’s right, we can’t go at night…we could end up anywhere,’ another inmate says.
‘Let’s find some more mother-fucking bitches,’ Colin shouts with glee.
‘Don’t fucking copy me,’ Randall snaps, ‘and where the fuck we gonna find pussy in this shit town?’
‘PUSSY…WHERE ARE YOU?’ Colin shouts. Randall grimaces at the sudden sound before bursting out laughing along with the other men.
‘We’ll find somewhere to hole up,’ Randall chuckles, ‘you crazy motherfuckers are sick man, fucking sick.’
‘That bitch was sick,’ an inmate adds, ‘well she will be in about nine months anyway.’
‘Yeah that’ll be an interesting call to the CSA, someone from Parkhurst got me pregnant’
‘Fucking slag, she was fucking begging for it, did you see her…couldn’t get enough.’
‘I bet her husband had a go after we left, you see him watching?’
‘What that fucker crying, fucking pussy, should be happy we gave his missus a good time.’
‘Good time, what all thirty seconds of it?’
‘Fuck off, I been locked up for twelve years you cunt, what you expect?’
‘You reckon they got women in that fort Randy?’
‘Dumb fucking question, of course they got women…they got hot ass bitches just itching for some penitentiary cock.’
‘Look at that fucker, what’s he doing?’ One of the inmates points down the road to a man walking slowly towards them.
‘He’s going fucking slow enough,’ someone remarks.
‘Motherfucker looks drunk…’ Randall says. They walk down, staring hard at the man shuffling slowly up the centre of the road. His head lolling from side to side, arms dangling limply as he walks stiff legged.
‘What is wrong with that motherfucker?’
‘I don’t know Randy…’ Colin replies.
‘It was a mother-fucking rhetorical question you dumb-ass,’ one of the inmates stares across at Randall, about to question if it was a rhetorical question but then thinks better of it.
‘Ere, look at his eyes, they all fucked up,’ Colin says as they get closer. The undead watches them, his head rolling about as he shuffles towards the food source.
‘Now that is one fucked up retard…’ Randall says as the men gather in a rough semi-circle round the man and stare at his deathly white skin, deep eye sockets and thin lips pulled back to show yellow rotting teeth. Maggots infect a wound in his neck, little fat worms that writhe and pulse. His clothes hang in shreds from long days spent in the hot sun.
‘He must be one of them things eh Randy,’ Colin says.
‘You fucking think?’ Randall retorts.
‘Look at him shuffle, he’s all fucked up…’ere mate I said you was all fucked up,’ Colin shouts at the shuffler.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘I’m talking to him Randy…those others could talk didn’t they.’
‘Man he drooling like a rabid mother-fucking dog,’ Randall looks in disgust, stepping back as the zombie turns to shuffle towards him.
‘He likes you Randy,’ Colin laughs.
‘More,’ Harry mutters. The men turn to see undead shuffling from a house a few doors up, the slow ungainly movements, stiff legged as they totter towards the gate, slowly spilling out onto the road.
‘These are some ugly fuckers,’ Randall says, staring at the decomposing bodies, rancid with decay and a strong fetid odour coming from them.
‘These like the ones from the movies,’ Colin says, ‘all slow and shuffling…why they different to them other ones eh Randy?’
‘How the fuck would I know the answer to that? I ain’t the mother-fucking zombie expert.’
‘They’ve all stopped…what they doin’ now Randy?’
‘They wondering why you keep asking dumb-ass questions is what they’re doing.’ The inmates stare, transfixed as the undead all stop and slowly turn their heads to the now dark sky. As the sun drops below the horizon the howling begins.
The inmates flinch in surprise, having been safely away from the undead since the event happened they watch with fascination as the gathered zombies howl and roar into the night. All around them animal screeches howl, long echoing noises that roll and bounce down the streets and houses, funnelled along the roads. Many voices take chorus, filling the air with sound.
Colin throws his head back and howls, the others start laughing then joining in. Long whooping noises of wolves or dogs. They keep going, mocking the undead and laughing as they get louder. Several group together, doing a wolf harmony.
The sound of the undead ceases abruptly. It just ends, leaving the inmates mid song and trailing off to look about them bemused.
The undead change, the heads become fixed instead of lolling. The eyes fix on the inmates, the movements suddenly not so slow and ungainly.
The closest undead lunges at Randall with frightening speed. Randall lashes out, smashing the thing in the head with a hard fist, sending it reeling off to the side.
The other undead burst into action, charging at the inmates. Instead of running, the inmates stand ready, clenching fists and shouting with aggression.
The undead are taken down, just a few of them against the many strong inmates. The fight is over within seconds. The prisoners stamping and kicking at the things, killing them easily.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Randall shouts.
‘More,’ Harry says. The others turn, seeing the drawn out line of undead staggering round the corner and running at them.
‘Fuck this,’ Randall mutters, they start running. Jogging away from the undead and heading further into the small town.
‘Why ain’t we getting’ the fit birds?’ Colin wails, ‘ain’t bloody fair.’
‘Shut your mother-fucking mouth and keep running.’
‘Fight,’ Harry says, his breath coming hard from having to run, Randall looks across at the man, seeing his red flushed face as he struggles to keep up.
‘You wanna fight them things?’ Randall asks, his own breathing coming easy enough.
‘Can’t run.’
‘You fight them if you want, I’m fucking running.’
Harry looks back, the long beard brushing against his chest as he cranes his neck round. His breathing getting harder and harder, heart hammering in his chest. A big man like Randall but just bulk and a lifetime of hard living now taking its toll.
‘There,’ one of the inmates shouts, pointing ahead. They peer down the long road to the small collection of shops forming the tiny town centre. A supermarket on the corner of a paltry town square, the doors smashed in offering a tempting hole to run through.
The men keep going, the slight descent of the road aiding their motion. Harry breathes harder and harder, struggling with pain shooting through his chest.
‘Move your fat ass,’ Randall shouts, shoving the man ahead. He stumbles, feet pounding the road surface.
The group reach the supermarket, forcing their way through the busted doors to stand bending over with hands on knees, gasping for breath.
Randall moves quickly, scanning the looted interior. Surging forward he grabs the end of a shelving unit and starts trying to drag it, ‘get the end,’ he shouts. Inmates grab at the unit, dragging the heavy long shelves across the tiled floor, shoving them against the gap of the front doors.
The unit is pushed in place as the undead reach the doors, growls sound from the outside as they slam into the shelves. The men brace themselves against it, digging their feet in and pushing backs to hold it against the doors.
‘More,’ Harry shouts, his face an unhealthy crimson colour.
‘Stay the fuck there,’ Randall shouts at the men holding the unit, he takes the others and grabs more shelves, dragg
ing them over to stack in the doorway. They work quickly, glancing at the large plate glass windows as more undead stagger past to the front doors.
‘Top,’ Harry shouts. The busted in doors prevent the shelving units from being flush against the opening, leaving a gap large enough for the undead to squeeze through and climb over. The first face appears, wild with fury, spittle hanging from the pulled back lips. Eyes wild and red as the clawed hands scrabble to gain purchase. The thing drives forward, ignoring the glass shards slicing at its skin and the sharp metal edges gouging into his legs.
Harry pulls his knife, steps back and stabs up, jamming the point into the things face. It slices deep through the cheek but causes no reaction other than blood spurting out. The thing, seeing its prey so close, scrabbles harder, heaving its body higher onto the units. Harry stabs up again, more knives join in, thrusting the points deep into the creatures face, cutting the skin to hanging bloody rags.
‘Move,’ Randall shouts, the men step aside as he swings a heavy fire extinguisher at the head, slamming the end of the tube into the things head. It snaps back, the force propelling it backwards to drop out of sight.
More clamber up, following the actions of the first one and using its downed body to step on. The men stab and thrust with knives, puckering the cheeks and faces of the undead. They ignore the blows and keep going. Blood pissing from many wounds, pouring onto the top of the units and dripping down the front. The inmates tilt their heads back in an effort to avoid the dripping blood.
The upwards motion causes the blood to spurt onto their blades and drip over the handles onto wrists and down forearms.
Shoulders start to burn from the exertion of the constant thrusting up. The men shout and growl, muttering oaths as they fend the things off.
An undead pushes through, the body slithering across the blood slick top of the units, it drops down into the store, landing heavily at the inmates feet. They stamp down, ending the thing under a reign of blows.
A loud thudding cracking noise snaps their heads round to the wall sized plate glass window at the front of the shop. Undead on the outside, slamming their bodies into the glass. Long spider web cracks form as the glass starts to fracture.
‘Move back,’ Randall shouts. The men dart away from the shelves, the sudden removal of their weight causes the shelves to topple forward from the press of bodies clambering against the reverse side.
It crashes down with undead landing amongst the debris. The window smashes, a deep cracking sound as the glass shatters and more undead bodies fall through, getting cut to ribbons by the long shards.
The men back away quickly, moving deeper into the store. Randall leads the way, heading towards the heavy plastic curtain at the back separating the store from the rear store rooms. He pushes through, shouting in anger at the undead coming at him.
He stabs out, plunging the blade of his knife deep into the chest. The thing ignores the blow, pushing forward. Randall braces and explodes out, forcing the thing of its feet to fall back onto the floor. Randall pulls the knife and stabs down into the neck. A spray of hot blood arcs out as the main artery is severed.
The delay is enough to allow the undead coming through the store to catch up. Fierce fighting breaks out at the heavy plastic curtain. Men shouting as they lash out, stabbing at the heads and necks of the undead fighting to get at them.
The dozen or so men fight furiously, using skills honed over years of violence and living in the confines of a hardened prison. Harry, now the running is over, comes into his own, lashing out with enormous power as he uses his bulk and size to drive them back.
More undead stagger into the rear store room, Randall and a couple of others fight forward, cutting them down as they beat a path to the rear doors.
The first inmate goes down, slipping on blood and dropping to the floor. Undead lunge down instantly, digging teeth into any exposed flesh. The man screams, thrashing out violently. The other inmates ignore him as they back away, leaving him to become engulfed.
Randall gets to the rear doors, bursting through into the open air. Just a few undead stagger towards them, wild with fury as they surge at the fresh prey. The men get through the door, no order or control, just every man fighting for himself. They push and shove against each other, swearing to move out the way.
In the back street they still can’t turn and run. The constant press of undead coming at them through the store keeps them focussed, knowing if they try and turn they’ll be taken down.
They move quicker, fighting backwards across the road. Randall and a few others attacking from the sides. Slashing and hacking at the monsters, cutting into necks and stabbing deep into the sides. Puncturing with rapid movements. They wrap strong arms round the undead necks as they drive the knife points in again and again. Blades sawing at jugulars. Fists lash out, hammering into faces, feet kick out, driving the things back.
Another one drops, tripping on the kerb and losing his balance enough for an undead to dive in and drive him off his feet. Again the men ignore his pleas for help, constantly moving back as the man is taken, bites covering his arms and legs, teeth gripping and tearing into his neck.
Through the midst of the battle Randall notices the inmate taken down in the store staggering from the back doors. For a second he thinks the man has fought free, then he sees the staggering motion that matches the other things perfectly.
‘Motherfucker,’ he mutters through hard breathing as the undead inmate surges into the fray.
The sound of fighting rolls down the quiet streets, alerting undead who start staggering towards the noise, drawn by the promise of a feast.
The inmates battle on, unable to flee and having to fight their ground as yet more of the things appear through the store and at the ends of the street, staggering and running as fast as possible.
The situation becomes impossible, the inmates, as strong, violent and tough as they are soon become heavily outnumbered.
Taken one by one the numbers start to dwindle, cut down as the last few days of physical exertion takes its toll, arms getting slower and slower, the power of their stabs dwindling. The cheap knife blades becoming blunt, handles too slick to keep hold of fall from hands.
Randall loses his own knife, driving it deep into the chest of an undead who falls to the ground, pulling the knife down with him.
‘Motherfucker,’ Randall rages at the injustice of it. Breaking free from prison just for this to happen in some shitty little street. The small group form into a tight circle. Colin, despite his stupidity, fights like a demon. A pure vicious streak gives him constant pleasure from the wounds and injuries he can inflict. The danger of the situation doesn't register as he revels in the gore, screaming with delight every time he stabs at one of the things.
Another goes down, undead surging in to push him bodily to the floor. The inmates close ranks, leaving him to die noisily.
Randall fights with bare hands, his knuckles bruising from the constant punches he lands. Busting undead noses and jaws, fracturing skulls as he stamps down.
He punches straight, his fist impacting the mouth of an undead. The dirty yellow teeth split the skin on Randall's knuckles, slicing the flesh open. The wound is tiny and unnoticed with the adrenalin of the fight. The blood from the undead's mouth coats the knuckles, soaking into the wound.
The infection surges through this powerful physique, the awesome strength of the man doing nothing to stop the spread as the virus drives through the organs, turning every cell. Within seconds Randall becomes aware of pain in his stomach.
Grimacing he fights on, ignoring the growing pain. The agony grips him, still he fights on, refusing to succumb to the pain. Years spent power lifting, and used to the burning feeling of lactic acid in his muscles his mind set allows him to keep going. Focus and keep going, ignore the pain and do what you set out to do.
He roars deeply, eyes wide and bulging. The infection takes over his body. The undead suddenly move away from him. Somehow recognisin
g he is now taken. They switch to the others, leaving Randall un-challenged. The confusion hits him as hard as the pain. No longer able to ignore it he clutches his stomach, staggering away from his group which spells their end. The undead swarm them through the gap he creates.
The inmates are taken down, overwhelmed by a pressed attack. Teeth dig into fingers, hands, legs, ankles, necks, anything that can be bitten is bit.
Randall staggers away, refusing to give in. The pain increases as he fights it. Roaring with sheer stubbornness. His vision becomes blurred as hot tears sting his eyes. He drops down to his knees, still refusing to let the pain defeat him.
His impossible refusal does nothing to stop the inevitable. The infection takes him, driving him to the ground as it starts to shut his body down. He sinks to the floor, lying on his back. Veins bulging from his muscles as he tenses against the agony.
Rage burns through him, pure fury as he keeps fighting to the very end. He dies noisily, screaming, shouting and swearing which slowly drops down to growling mutters. Gritting his teeth he fixes his eyes on the bright moon. Breathing coming harder, heart slowing, the infection takes him. Kills him.
Randall dies.
Twenty-One
She looks up at me, craning her head to stare through tear misted eyes but all I can see is the exposed neck. Smooth skin just waiting to be bitten. My mouth fills with saliva as the image grows in my mind. I swallow it down, breathing deeply to gain control.
The boy stares at his aunt. I can tell he wants to bite, the urge in him must be so strong. My will stops him. There was a connection, a different feeling as he came back. I was willing him to be able to speak. Focussing all my energy into that one thought. Was it me that gave him the ability or the infection simply allowing him to speak and retain intelligence?
The humans smell so good. So very good. The fear coming from them is like the scent of freshly baked bread early in the morning. The horde want them so much, so do I. But this isn’t the way. If we take these people now we prove we are the monsters they think we are and there will never be change.
The infection urges me to do it. It tells me this group won’t matter. They’re isolated and alone. No one would know, easy targets that can be turned easily, they’ve suffered greatly and I know within a few minutes they could be at peace with us and that pain would be gone. They haven’t even run away they’re so full of fear and shock from what just happened with the prisoners that escaped.