The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  Meredith. He has to get her out of here. She’s all that matters. He grips her lead and starts back along the wall, staring down at the devastation being wrought below. It’s already spread far and taking in all parts of the living quarters. He watches as a man batters his way through the door of the police office and disappears from view.

  Pausing for a second he plots a route; go down the slope and round the inside edge of the front wall. Get to the gates and get the dog outside. The route is already blocked by people fighting but there’s no other way.

  He aims for the slope and starts running. Getting to the top he spots Sarah forcing her way through the crowd dragging one of the runners with her. He shouts a warning as an undead lunges at her leg. She falters as he bites and stabs down. She pushes the boy away and shouts at him before turning back to fight the attackers off.

  The boy runs at Chris, tears falling from his face. They meet halfway along the slope as the boy runs straight into his arms.

  Chris drops down and grabs the boys shoulders, ‘listen to me…I need you to do something…something very important…the most important thing you will ever do in your life…you can run fast can’t you.’

  The boy nods, a quick movement that causes the tears to fly from his face.

  ‘I need you to take the dog and run, you run out this fort and you keep running…you hear me, you don’t look back…you don’t stop for anything…you get out and run…’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No buts…LISTEN TO ME,’ Chris shouts at the boy, ‘go straight up that road and keep going until you find Howie…you tell him what’s happened here…tell him the fort is gone…everything is gone and you tell him to stay away,’ Chris glances over the boys shoulder as Sarah goes down, the action adding more urgency to his voice, ‘can you do it?...You will do it…’

  ‘What about you?’ The boy asks.

  ‘I’m going to make sure you get out…take the lead now, hold it tight and do not let her leave your side…do not let her go…no matter what happens to me you get out with the dog and run, got it?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I said GOT IT?’

  ‘Okay,’ the boy nods, his voice firmer. Chris presses the lead into the boys hand and makes him wrap it round his wrist.

  ‘Stay behind me…but you see a chance to run then you take it…run fast, run faster than you’ve ever run before and don’t stop.’ He grabs the boy and hugs him, he doesn't know the boy but can see the terror in his eyes and knows his own life is about to end. That last human comfort, from a man to a child.

  ‘I’m scared,’ the boy whispers.

  ‘I’ll protect you…I won’t let anyone hurt you…but you’ve got to run, find Howie…promise me.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Swear it.’

  ‘I swear,’ the boy sobs.

  Chris pushes the boy gently away and nods at him. A single tear rolls down his face and soaks into his beard.

  ‘You’re a good lad,’ Chris smiles and stands. He draws the pistol from his belt and starts down the slope, urging the boy to stay close.

  With Sarah down the undead fight closer to the base of the slope. Chris walks steadily towards them. One breaks free and starts up. Chris fires once, a clean headshot that drops the body instantly. He holds the gun up as they reach the base. Another lunges, a single shot and the body drops. Chris uses his free hand to keep the boy behind him. Meredith barks and growls but she senses the fear in the little one holding her lead. She knows the man wants her to protect the little one. She makes more noise. She tells them to stay away for she has no fear of them, she has killed them before and she’ll kill them again.

  ‘Stay close,’ Chris shouts, he fires again, dropping another body that comes at them.

  The progress is slow, painfully slow. Too many bodies falling and moving to risk going faster but every step is one closer to the front.

  He fires again, another body slumps to the ground. Meredith roars at the things, her lips pulled back to show her teeth. The boy struggles to hold the powerful beast. She could break free with ease, she could pull him behind her without noticing it but she doesn't. She knows she is to defend him so she holds her position. This pack rely on her to hold her position.

  Chris fires twice, cursing as the first one clips a shoulder. He counts the bullets and calculates there must be two left. With long practised movements he ejects the magazine and rams his last one home, sliding the top back to engage the first bullet.

  They keep going, Chris tracking any potential target and only firing at those that come their way. The rounds quickly diminish as the fighting intensifies. Chris moves faster, using his spare hand to keep checking the boy is behind him.

  Yards from the gate and he can sense they’ve almost made it. One last group of survivors fighting with desperation at a horde of undead, they block the path, to go round them takes them further into the melee.

  ‘OPEN THE GATE,’ Chris bellows at the survivors, one of them, a tall guard with dark hair sees Chris shouting and focusses his attention.

  ‘OPEN THE GATE…WE’VE GOT TO GET THE DOG OUT.’ The man looks at the boy holding the dog and nods his understanding. He says something to the rest of his group. One by one they glance over and Chris can see the understanding in their faces. All the guards know of the importance of the dog. It must survive no matter what.

  The guard with the dark hair turns and pulls the bolts back, he twists round to lash out at an undead lunging into him before going back and pulling the last one free.

  ‘This is it,’ Chris shouts to the boy, ‘we’ll drive them back and you get out…remember what I said…you run…’

  ‘Okay, the boy shouts back and swallows his fear down. He fixes his eye on the gate, the view partially blocked by the number of bodies fighting in the way.

  ‘Tell Clarence I said he was a fat wanker,’ Chris shouts.

  ‘WE’RE GONNA DRIVE THEM BACK…READY?’ Chris roars at the men pressed against the gate. They nod back, still lashing out with whatever weapons they could grab, knives, bats, stick, shotguns and rifles reversed and swung out.

  Chris aims the pistol and fires into the crowd of undead, the bullets slam home, ripping skulls apart. The pistol clicks empty, he ditches it.

  ‘NOW,’ he bellows. He draws a large knife from his belt and charges. The guards rally, they roar in defiance and fight out. Driving the undead back from the gate.

  Chris slams into the first few. The sheer momentum of his weight and speed forcing them further away.

  The guards fight with everything they’ve got. To the last man they force the undead back and create space behind them.

  ‘GO…’ Chris shouts to the boy. He squeezes the lead and runs for it. An undead breaks free and runs behind Chris, charging at the boy.

  Meredith lunges forward, rising onto her back legs and tearing at the things face with her huge teeth. She tears the man apart while the boy dangles on the end of the lead. As the thing falls the boy pulls the lead and runs down the tight space created by the guards fighting forward.

  He gets to the gate and pushes it open, pausing for the briefest of seconds to glance back at Chris. The big man grins, white teeth gleaming against his black beard. Chris nods at the boy and watches as he slips out of view.

  More undead charge at the small group. The ferocity of the attack increases with every passing second.

  Chris fights out with savage intent. His knife cutting, thrusting and stabbing. More come at him and more die. The guards start to fall, the press of bodies overwhelming them. One by one they falter and die. The small group whittles down as the fighting becomes harder and harder.

  The thick stack of bodies builds ever higher as Chris refused to be defeated. He roars with anger, using his strength and experience to kill and kill and keep killing.

  The guard with the dark hair drops from a sudden lunge of several undead taking him off his feet. He screams as the teeth tear into his body. The last thought on his mind as h
e dies is that of Jane, the quiet but beautiful girl that kept him company these last few days.

  ‘What the fuck are you motherfuckers doing?’ A deep voice booms out. Chris back away, half in a crouch position with the knife held ready. His hands and arms slick with blood. The undead hold back, waiting as the huge American strides into their midst.

  ‘He just one mother-fucking man,’ Randall shouts, ‘look at all these dead bodies…did you do this?’ He directs the question at Chris.

  Chris stares back, eyeing the size of the man and taking in the red bloodshot eyes.

  ‘I mother-fucking asked you a question?’ Randall demands.

  ‘Get fucked,’ Chris spits.

  ‘Me get fucked?’ Randall blanches, ‘I ain’t the one surrounded by fucking zombies now am I?’

  ‘You can still get fucked,’ Chris mutters.

  ‘See, I don’t think you know how this works…I tell you to get fucked…and you literally…get fucked…You understand now? In a minute you will be bent over getting fucked…fucked till you bleed.’

  Chris backs away as the man walks slowly towards him.

  ‘Harry…take this motherfucker out,’ Randall clicks his fingers. Chris watches another big man emerge from the crowd. This one with a long grey beard.

  Harry walks towards Chris, no emotion displayed in his dead eyes. Chris pauses, waiting until the last second. He feints as though to run back but twists and lunges in. Harry is quick, but not quick enough to stop the long knife blade being driven to the hilt in his gut. Chris jerks the handle left and right, twisting and gouging before pulling the blade free. He steps back as Harry looks down at the wound. He looks up at Chris and comes on again, not showing any reaction to the stab he just received.

  He lashes out, sending a fist towards Chris’s head. Chris just leans back and lets the knuckles gently touch his nose. He sends one of his own in, a hard punch that smashes Harry’s nose. Chris follows it through by driving the knife deep into Harry’s side. He pulls the blade out and stabs again, the motion getting faster as his other hand reigns blow after blow to the ex-bikers face.

  Harry staggers backwards, overwhelmed by the ferocity of the attack. Blood pumps from the wounds in his stomach and sides. Chris rams the knife through his chest, puncturing a lung. He rips the blade out and side swipes at Harry’s neck. The sharp pointing driving deep inside. Chris jerks the blade free and watches as the main artery is opened. Blood arcs out from Harry. He staggers for a second before falling to his knees then topples over lie face down and inert.

  ‘Like I said,’ Chris pants, ‘get fucked.’

  ‘Oh you think you a bad motherfucker,’ Randall grins down at Harry’s bleeding corpse, ‘a real bad motherfucker…let’s see if you can do that again.’ Randall runs forward, the speed of the man surprising Chris. He tries to swipe out with the knife but finds a big gnarly fist wrapped around his wrist.

  He looks in shock as Randall holds him steady. Chris pulls and pushes but the bigger man refuses to budge.

  ‘Ain’t so strong now are ya? You dumb-ass motherfucker,’ Randall goads him.

  Chris punches out with his free hand, sending a fast hard straight punch to the Americans face. Randall swats it away like an insect. Chris twists and drives his back into the other man, trying to throw him over one shoulder and break the grip he has. Randall steps backwards and pulls Chris with him. Assuming a mock bored expression he watches as Chris tries to break the grip on his wrist.

  Then he lashes out. Randall punches Chris in the face. An almighty blow that breaks Chris’s nose. Blood spurts out of his nostrils, pouring down into his mouth. Randall hits again, and again, he keeps hitting as Chris’s face is slowly destroyed. The cheeks bones are broken, the eye sockets are fractured. But he refuses to go down and stays wobbling on his feet.

  Randall stops punching and watches Chris with interest. A puzzled expression forming as Chris starts laughing, gently at first then harder and harder.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Randall looks round at the sea of undead faces staring at him.

  ‘You find this funny? You find me mother-fucking funny?’ Randall demands.

  ‘Not you,’ Chris guffaws…I’m laughing…’ he spits a thick glob of blood out of his mouth, a tooth flying out with it, 'I’m laughing at what….what’ll happen when you meet…’ He spits again, clearing his throat, ‘Clarence,’ he adds with a laugh.

  ‘Clarence? Who the fuck is he?’ Randall asks.

  Chris laughs harder, tears mixed with blood pour down his ruined face and soak into his beard.

  ‘I said who the fuck is Clarence?’ Randall draws the man in closer.

  ‘Give me my knife and I’ll tell you,’ Chris whispers hoarsely.

  ‘You dumb-fuck…’ Randall retorts. He pushes Chris away. Releasing the grip on his wrist. ‘Take it then…you dying anyway.’ Randall toes the big knife towards Chris and readies himself for the anticipated attack.

  Chris bends over slowly and grips the handle. He rights himself and sways on the spot. One eye already closed from the beating, he stares round and takes in the sight of the undead.

  ‘You,’ he points the knife at them, sweeping it round, ‘are all fucked…Howie and Dave and Clarence will end you….all of you….’ He laughs again, a bitter humourless sound.

  ‘Howie?’ Randall asks, ‘I keep hearing that retard's fucking name…where the fuck is this Howie…?’ He looks round to exaggerate the point.

  ‘Oh you’ll meet him,’ Chris spits, ‘you’ll meet all of them.’

  ‘This is fucked up,’ Randall shakes his head, ‘come on now, you got ya knife, let’s get this done,’ he beckons Chris on, goading him to attack.

  ‘Like I said the first time,’ Chris pauses as he lifts the knife, ‘you can get fucked,’ he roars with anger as he drives the point of the knife deep into his own throat. Coughing and spluttering as he hacks away. He sinks down from the pain and blood loss, suffocating and drowning at the same time.

  He sticks one finger up at Randall as a final insulting salute and topples forward, bleeding out and dying. Images flood through his mind, images of his wife, of his fallen comrade Malcolm. He thinks of Clarence and Howie, then of the dog. The dog that holds the cure and is now running far from the fort. As his eyes close a warm feeling floods through his system. He heard Howie say that prayer that day. He heard it inside his head. If he heard that prayer in his head then it can only mean one thing. God does exist.

  He dies smiling.

  Thirty-Four

  ‘Howie to Clarence.’

  ‘Go ahead boss.’

  ‘Just checking to see if you’ve punched Cookey yet?’

  ‘Not yet...we’re discussing the finer merits of bikinis versus swimsuits.’

  ‘Oh right…sounds interesting.’

  ‘I said I prefer swimsuits as it leaves more to the imagination and is classical, whereas young Cookey said he preferred skimpy bikini’s, preferably with the lady holding her bikini top in her hand as she walks down the beach.’

  ‘Ah, now I have to agree with Cookey, definitely bikini’s but not the holding of the top bit though I hasten to add before my head gets cut off.’

  ‘I bet she’s stood behind you now holding that meat cleaver.’

  ‘Definitely bikinis.’

  ‘Lani just shouted that she prefers bikinis.’

  ‘But only if you have the figure for it.’

  ‘She just said only if they’re fitties though.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘Cookey said the same thing, I won’t repeat his words exactly…’

  ‘Swimsuits, I think they’re sexy as anything.’

  ‘Blowers just said he’s with you and prefers swimsuits.’

  ‘Cookey said to tell him he prefers tight speedos.’

  ‘Urgh not dick-stickers, they’re gross…got to be shorts.’

  ‘Lani said she hates dick-stickers and prefers shorts.’

  ‘Dick-stickers? What are dick-stickers?’
<
br />   ‘Speedos Clarence, they mean speedos or tight trunks.’

  ‘I got an echo then from you and Cookey saying the same thing…you’d better get rid of your trunks then if she prefers shorts.’

  ‘I like my trunks.’

  ‘He better not wear dick-stickers.’

  ‘Hello Lani!’

  ‘Hello Clarence, tell Cookey that Blowers is missing him…he’s sat all alone on the bench.’

  ‘I’m not missing him…it’s bloody peaceful in here.’

  ‘Blowers wears dick-stickers all the time, he wears them instead of underpants.’

  ‘Piss off Cookey.’

  ‘That’s better than the spider-man pants you wear Cookey.’

  ‘Get bent Nick, go and wash your y-fronts.’

  ‘Does Nick wear y-fronts?’

  ‘Yes Lani, he does…brown and yellow ones.’

  ‘Cookey I don’t fucking wear y-fronts.’

  ‘And his other pair are paisley.’

  ‘I hate pants as much as dick-stickers…got to be tight boxer shorts.’

  ‘You hear that boss? She prefers tighty whitey’s…’

  ‘I heard Clarence…we need to stop at an underwear shop.’

  ‘I never said tighty whitey’s, I said boxer shorts….Lillian is nodding, she agrees with me.’

  ‘How about a bloke wearing a g-string?’

  ‘No Cookey, that’s gross…and Lillian agrees with that too.’

  ‘Blowers…you got to ditch that g-string mate…I said it was gross.’

  ‘Okay Cookey…I’ll do it when we get back, how about a mankini?’

  ‘What like Borat?’

  ‘Yes Lani, Cookey wears a mankini like Borat.’

  ‘Fuck off Blowers…you said it turned you on.’

  ‘Do you two ever agree on anything?’

  ‘No Lani, they bloody don’t.’

  ‘Is Nick having a crafty smoke up top?’

  ‘Piss off Cookey you fucking snitch…Dave’ll hear that.’

  ‘I heard it.’

  ‘I’ve put it out.’

  ‘Thank you Nicholas…and Alex?’