The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  A smile twitches at the corners of her mouth but the eyes are humourless.

  So much has changed in just eleven days. That’s all it is; eleven days since it began. It feels like a lifetime ago. She was a different person then.

  The last tendrils of light fade from the surface of the road, bathing the area into deep shadows. Won’t be long now.

  She can feel the drying sweat on her skin, pulling it tight. Too much sugar today, too much crap food too. She drops down to open a rucksack, pulling out a toothbrush and toothpaste held in a clear plastic bag. After wetting the end of the brush from her bottle she applies a thick tube of paste and starts brushing her teeth. Relishing the instant clean taste.

  She stops, holding her head to one side, listening intently before shrugging and carrying on. Working the brush into her mouth, scrubbing her teeth thoroughly. She spits the remnants of the saliva mixed paste onto the street. Taking a gulp of water she swills it round before jetting that out too.

  The toothbrush and paste go back into the plastic bag. From the rucksack she takes her last clean top. Laying it on the bag she strips her filthy pale blue t shirt off and unclasps her bra to crouch topless in the darkening street.

  Using wet wipes and water she scrubs at her body. Removing the stale odour of sweat from under her arms. Working methodically she pulls the bra back on takes a can of deodorant from the bag. She smiles at the colourful pattern on the front of the can. Remembering her previous life that was surrounded by things like this. She sprays each armpit, sniffing at the pleasant smell from the can. She knows they’ll be able to smell her. She hopes they do, it’ll make them charge harder.

  She listens for a second, opening her mouth and staying perfectly still. Nothing. She stands up and unclasps the belt from her black cargo trousers, unfastens the button and pulls them down. Again using the wet wipes, she cleans herself, wiping sweat away from the creases of her body. With her trousers and knickers down she hobbles forward a few steps, squats down and pisses on the road, knowing she has to go now because there won’t be time later, and no way she’s going to piss herself. Not after the last time; that stank and caused a rash.

  Finished, she wipes clean and dresses.

  The last thing she does is pull her hair free from the tight bands, shaking it loose and running her fingers through the long brown locks. A hairbrush from the bag and she works the knots and tangles out, grimacing at the pull. She sweeps it back, re-fastening the tight bands to secure the locks into a bun, tight against her head.

  The bag is re-packed and sealed. Finally she stands up, stretching the tight muscles in her legs. They feel taut and strong. Far stronger than ever before. Despite the tiredness and fatigue, she feels strong and fit, lithe and capable.

  She checks the knives are still there, both of them attached to her belt, one on either hip, handles ready to be pulled. The pistol comes next, drawing it out, ejecting the magazine, checking the rounds. The top is pulled back, the first bullet engaged. The pistol is pushed back into the holster and made ready. She checks the straps on the black sub machine gun, ensuring they’re fixed securely, the magazine is full and the safety is on. She props the MP5 police issue single shot weapon next to her bag then checks her pockets for the spare ammunition clips.

  That’s it. She’s ready. All done.

  Seconds go by. Minutes tick along. She taps her foot, pursing her mouth then checking her nails, wincing at the dirt under them.

  Full night now. No doubt about it. Not dusk or evening, but proper night.

  So where are they? They must be far off if she hasn’t heard the howling by now. Not a single howl. Unless they’ve changed tactic and decided not to howl anymore. It’s possible. They seem to be getting weirder every day. Moving fast in the day, working together, and the last few nights she’s definitely noticed an increase in aggression.

  ‘Come on,’ she mutters, checking her watch. Listening intently, still nothing.

  Sighing she drops back down and pulls a tube of Pringles from the side of her bag. She flips the lid off and grabs one out. Crunching it noisily. Sour cream, she shrugs. She would have preferred barbeque but those were eaten yesterday.

  She crunches away. Pausing every now and then mid bite as she listens. Rolling her eyes before carrying on.

  ‘Just brushed my teeth too,’ she tuts. She grows fed up with the Pringles and puts them back, Once more using the water to swill her mouth out.

  She checks her watch again, huffing with impatience. She hates tardiness. A sure sign of a general lack of respect and a poor work ethic. No wonder they’re losing every night if they can’t even be bothered to turn up on time.

  A far off howl. A faint sound carrying on the warm still air. She looks up, smiling with satisfaction. She pulls the bag on, adjusting the straps and securing the waist band. She jump tests on the spot, checking everything is secure.

  Yep.

  This is it.

  A glint in her eye from another far off howl. Wolves circling in the urban forest. She doesn't feel scared. She feels excited.

  More howls. Louder. Closer. They’re coming. Loads of them too judging by the noise. She detects the sound of drumming, of feet pounding the ground. Distinct in the quietness but still out of sight.

  She nods with respect, hearing them but not seeing them means they’ve brought a lot. Good, it’s about time they took her seriously. She’s killed enough of them to earn it.

  She shrugs at her own thoughts. At least this promotion to being taken seriously is quicker than the last one. Oh wait…yes that’s right, the last one never came did it. No, she wasn’t promoted but left on the office floor.

  Still, where are they all now? Dead, that’s where. Dead or quite possibly in that giant horde that’s going to charge into view any second. Either way they are not here. But she is. Alive and doing rather well, even if she does say so herself.

  Self-respect should be given. It’s as important to know when you’ve done a good job as it is to identify areas of improvement. Yes, she can feel good about this. After all, that giant horde are coming for her, not anyone else. So that means she’s pissed them off enough to get their full attention.

  And if she can kill this lot too, then maybe they’ll take her even more seriously. No, not if…the outcome is certain. She will survive. She will kill them.

  Seven P’s. The effort has been taken, the time invested, the work completed so there is no reason why it shouldn’t work. Seven P’s.

  ‘Proper pre-planning prevents piss poor performance,’ she recites to herself, smiling at the memory of the office manager who would say at least once every day.

  And that idiot Clarke who tried to copy him. Her mood plummets at the memory of Clarke. The first death she saw. Eleven days ago, when she was a different person.

  Three

  ‘Are you sure you can’t come?’

  ‘I’d love to but I’ve got to get this done.’

  ‘Oh come on! It’s a beautiful summer evening and the place is crawling with wealthy men.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me…I would like nothing better than being there but I can’t, I just can’t.’

  ‘Well what’s so important that it keeps you in the office on a Friday night?’

  ‘Contract for a new client…’

  ‘Stuff the new client! Do it Monday.’

  ‘It’s got to be ready by Monday.’

  ‘When did they give it to you?’

  ‘Today at four-thirty.’

  ‘Bastards…there’s no way you could get that done in time…’

  ‘Unless I stay on and work…Yes I know but look, this client is a big fish so if I get this done properly then…’

  ‘Then what? Then you can spend more time at work and be even busier than you are now!’ Just go in on Sunday and do it…come here and help me find a rich man, you should find one too then tell that firm to piss off…’

  ‘I don’t need a rich man, if I want something I’ll do it myself, I’m not going to be s
ome trophy wife to be shown off at the golf club every Sunday…’

  ‘Yeah yeah…heard it all before….boring! I’m going to mingle and find me a hedge banker.’

  ‘You mean a hedge fund…’

  ‘Who cares! Stop being a boring accountant…As long as he’s rich he can do what he wants with his hedges, call me.’

  ‘I will, have fun.’

  ‘You too!’

  Paula takes the mobile phone away from her ear and presses the red button, ending the call. Friday night and here she is, doing a contract for another new big fish client. How many Friday’s was this now? Too many. Far too many, and while everyone else was out enjoying themselves she was here, putting the hours in.

  She grimaces at the cold bitter coffee sipped from her mug. The plain white mug that sat on her plain desk.

  If a woman wants to succeed in a man’s world she has to think like a man. Do not be seen as the soft maternal figure in the office and that means clearing your desk of all the photographs and items of sentiment. Work is a place for work. The desk is not an extension of your social life. If you want to be taken seriously then look serious.

  Right now she could seriously murder that woman. She’d paid for the Workplace Empowerment course herself, and used her own annual leave to attend. The self-righteous tutor made it clear how she felt women should promote themselves. Not by slinky outfits and putting up with the arse slapping, but by hard work and a ruthless determination. Don’t make the tea, don’t tidy everyone else’s desks, don’t listen to poor old Donald talking about the problems with his wife, work. Work and work hard and be utterly ruthless.

  Paula looked down at her pencil skirt, the perfect length of being just below the knee. The plain white shirt made her feel harsh but she also knew it made her look professional. No necklaces or heavy make-up, subtle earrings and her long brown hair was tied back and fixed up.

  She knew she looked the part. She also knew she was highly capable with the highest work-rate in the office. Her clients were all more than satisfied with her performance and month on month she was well above target.

  So why was she the only left in the office on a Friday night? Why were all the other staff, all the male staff, out having fun and doing whatever normal people do on Friday nights? That was it. She wasn’t male. She lacked the necessary appendage between her legs and didn’t play golf or squash. Maybe that was what she should do; start playing golf and squash. But no, that would just give them idea’s and it was hard enough getting them to keep their bloody hands to themselves as it was without turning up at the local sports club and getting sweaty with them.

  She noticed the photocopier and stationary cabinet had been moved to the far end of the office after just a month of working here. It was placed in the very centre of the far wall; in full view of the entire office and it was amazing how often it ran out of paper, meaning she would have to bend down and open a new box, remove the protective paper before re-filling the drawers. Knowing full well that over a dozen men were staring straight at her backside. The silence that came over the office floor whenever she did it gave it away, then the sniggers that always followed.

  Funny but they never did it when Dominic was here. The regional manager worked from another office but he came in several times during the week. Tall with dark hair and a serious face but he was different to them and spoke to her like she was a person and always took the time to check she was okay. The office staff never did anything when Dominic was around but she also knew that to survive in the office she shouldn’t rely on other men to save her.

  It was a fine line between becoming ultra-feminist and challenging every bloke who even glanced at her chest or letting everything go and being seen as a soft touch that would just put up with it.

  She’d learnt various tricks, like asking if there was something stuck to the front of her shirt when they kept staring, and making a point of politely asking what they were staring at, always with a smile of course. Then she’d learnt how to crouch down when filling the photocopier instead of bending over. Turn slightly sideways, legs together and reduce any kind of sexual profile they might have.

  Her perfume was always carefully chosen as she knew they loved to use her scent as an excuse to lean in too close. So it was subtle and sparingly applied.

  The raucous banter was mostly ignored and never joined in with. Normal office jokes were one thing but when it came to the sexual comments she simply moved away and carried on working. Of course she could always take it to the office manager or even Dominic. They’d deal with it, they’d have to, but that would be her finished and destined to a career on the main floor.

  She looks over at the side offices, at the row of doors that marked the boundary from the main office to those private areas used by the Account Managers. That was her first goal. Become an Account Manager.

  She should have got the last position that came up but it was given to Tim instead. Nice man and competent enough but his figures and targets were nowhere near hers.

  You need more experience. Maybe next time.

  So here she was. Friday night and she was getting that experience now. She could feel the unfairness of it starting to niggle her but she had to channel it, make it work for her. Once she was an Account Manager she would then be in charge of the office and things would be different. The photocopier would go back to where it was for a start.

  Damn it was hot. The air conditioning was automatically switched off at five-thirty and with no air flow it soon warmed up.

  She’d already undone the two top buttons of her shirt and now she reached for the next one, knowing that this button would expose some cleavage. But then she was the only one here so she was safe, safe to show some skin without being stared at.

  That felt better, she wafted the shirt away from her body, feeling the flow of air circulate down the sleeves. She longed to release her hair from the tight bun but even though the office was empty it somehow felt wrong, that she should maintain that professional image.

  She worked on, writing the contract manually. Importing the sections that applied to every client and working out the specialised terms as agreed. Everything was checked, then checked again and then checked more. To make a mistake would be awful. The office manager wouldn’t hesitate to walk through the main office and inform her of what had been done wrong.

  It wasn’t that Paula minded being corrected, she knew that learning from mistakes was an integral part of self-development. It was when he walked through the main office and told her in front of everyone else, that was the bit she didn’t like, especially when the room went silent and she knew they were all listening.

  ‘Section one, parties to this agreement…’ Paula paces the main floor holding the completed contract in her hand while reading it aloud, something she’d learnt from a writer friend who said he always read his stuff out loud.

  With another button undone and her hair now pulled free from the bun she kicks her shoes off and feels the pleasure of her feet being free. The heat was awful, oppressive even.

  ‘The client in order to properly conduct its business…’ she went on. Feeling the hard worn carpet under her feet as she moved between the desks.

  ‘…during the length of this contract, the accountant shall serve the client and perform any and all services,’ she passes her desk and grabs her coffee mug, grimacing again at the cold contents. She drinks it anyway, knowing the caffeine will keep her going.

  She slips into a broad Scottish accent as she reads the next section, mimicking the tones of Bill who normally occupies the desk next to her, ‘och aye…I dunnae know mooch aboot ya businezz but ah dooo know aboot numbers,’ she rolls her eyes at the speech he gives every client on the phone. She had no Ill-feeling towards the Scottish, just Bill. The way he made the accent stronger on the phone so he appeared more “real” as he put it.

  ‘Och my wee lassie, why dunnae you fill up the photocopier and give us a wee flash o’ya arse.’ She tuts with distaste and wal
ks on, reciting the sections and sub-sections.

  At the photocopier she rests the sheaf of papers on the top and glances back to the empty room before dramatically bending over to the bottom draw. Wiggling her arse that pokes out behind her she turns and presses one finger to her mouth, giving the imaginary work-force a nice show.

  ‘I’m going mad,’ she mutters to herself as she takes the contract up, about turns and starts heading back down.

  Loud banging stops her mid-stride. She cranes her neck to listen. There it is again, a solid banging noise.

  She drops the contract on her desk and heads back down the office into the hallway. She listens at the top of the stairs, waiting until she hears the banging noise again.

  At the top floor of a four storey office block she knows the noise must be coming from downstairs. She starts to descend, using the moonlight shining through the large windows to guide her way.

  Past the third floor architects offices, then past the financial advisors second floor and onto the first floor where the communal meeting and conference rooms were held.

  The banging gets louder as she drops down. Firm and sustained. She heads towards the secure front door, seeing the silhouette through the frosted security glass.

  ‘Who is it?’ She calls out. The office was close to the town centre and on a Friday night she was always worried about passing drunks and teenage revellers.

  ‘Paula?’ A familiar voice calls. She smiles and opens the door, grinning at the young man stood there holding the pizza box. ‘Working late again then?’ He smiles, passing the warm box over.

  ‘Yep,’ she takes the box and slips the bank note from the top pocket of her shirt, ‘Friday night pizza in the office…my favourite,’ she jokes.

  ‘You’re here every Friday,’ the lad comments, ‘you must be earning a fortune.’

  ‘You’d think so wouldn’t you,’ she replies with a roll of her eyes, ‘trust me, I’m not.’ She looks past him to the battered red coloured motor-scooter propped up with the engine noisily ticking over, the white top box still open with more pizza boxes inside.