The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  Paula backs away, leading him on. He takes the bait, stalking her with murderous intent. She backs into the cubicle and reaches round to grab the kettle, launching forward and swinging it into his head. He goes down hard. Collapsing on the carpet.

  He rolls onto his back in an effort to sit up. She stamps down, driving the heel of her sensible office shoe into his scrotum, rupturing one of his testicles.

  Reacting in instinct he rolls away, screaming and gasping from the agony. Her mind feels clear. Clearer than ever before. A glimmer comes into her eyes. A dangerous smile twitches at her lips. She puts the kettle back on the side and turns it on before striding over to the photocopier. She grasps one of the heavy boxes of paper and lifts it above her head. Slamming it down onto the side of his face. Another one gets launched at his fat gut.

  He screams and bucks, twisting and writhing as he gets pummelled by the heavy sharp cornered boxes. Clarke rolls and tries to rise, scrabbling with adrenalin to his feet.

  She moves to the side of the copier and takes the heavy guillotine, the solid plank of wood with the strip of metal and cutter using for trimming paper. He crabs backwards, his back hitting the front of his own desk. The same desk she was assaulted over just seconds ago.

  She swings the hard edge of the guillotine into the side of his knee. He screams and goes down as the edge drives into his flesh, tearing it open. She brings it up, holding it high above her head before driving it down with every ounce of strength she has into his elbow. A loud crack as the bone snaps. He screams with a high pitched wail.

  Behind her the kettle clicks off, still warm from the coffee she made a short time ago and taking only minutes to re-boil. She grabs the handle and walks towards Clarke. In the darkness, with agony searing through his body he doesn't see her until the last second but by then it’s too late. The boiling hot water is poured over his head, scalding his face.

  He screams, thrashing his limbs then screaming as more pain comes from his broken elbow.

  ‘You raped me,’ she hisses in a low voice, ‘you put yourself inside me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he splutters, wailing in pain as he wipes at the peeling skin on his face.

  ‘No,’ she shakes her head, ‘sorry isn’t good enough…I begged you to stop…I pleaded with you Clarke. You forced yourself inside me…’ she growls, the anger building up. She takes two steps forward, slamming the base of her foot into his face. Smashing his cheek bone in.

  He slumps over, knocked out. In a rage like she has never felt before she grabs the guillotine and kick down at it, forcing the plastic guard away. It comes free far easier than she’d have thought.

  She drops down beside him, grabbing his hand and splaying the fingers over the edge of the board. Breathing hard she pushes the solid metal cutting handle down, so the sharp blade is resting on the top of his digits. The same digits that forced their way inside her.

  Standing up she listens as he starts to murmur, his voice getting stronger by the second. He comes back to consciousness, slowly at first. She waits until he tries opening his burnt eyes, screaming at the sight of his fingers wedged under the blade. She stamps down, driving her foot onto the handle. The blade bites deep, severing his pinky and the next one clean off. He jerks his hand back, tearing the flesh even worse. With two fingers gone and the rest hanging on by mere fleshy strips he stares with an open mouth. Imitating a goldfish as he closes it, then opens it. Shock hitting him. Even the alcohol now unable to blot the pain out.

  Slowly he rotates his head, looking away from his ruined hand and up at the woman stood there staring down at him. The moonlight bathing her beautiful face. She stares at him blankly. Not a flicker of emotion. His fingers pump thick blood out that drips down his wrist and along his arm. He stares back at it, unable to move his broken arm to stem the bleeding.

  Having already lost a pint of blood from the broken nose, his fat gorged body is unable to cope with the trauma. A tightening grips his chest. His over-worked heart goes into spasm. He gasps for breath. Every other pain forgotten as his chest explodes with agony.

  He’s dead within a minute. Blood loss and shock finishing him off.

  Paula looks down at his body and slowly turns her head towards the door, listening to the banging coming from the ground floor.

  She just killed a man. Caused his death by her own means. His life is gone, just a fat bloated, ruined corpse left leaking juices over the office carpet.

  Paula doesn't feel disgust, nor does she feel sorrow. He caused this and made it happen. Of all the choices he could have taken he chose that one. Chose to bully, threaten and force himself on her.

  She walks to the window, grimacing at the stench of piss from the files scattered about the floor. Looking down she takes in the pools of light cast from the street lights and the figures staggering from the dark edges through the car park towards her building. In the distance of the town she can see the glow of flames from a burning building.

  Paula glances back at the dark form of Clarke. The first dead body. Her first kill.

  The first of many.

  Four

  ‘TO ARMS….AMBUSH…STAND TO,’ Dave bellows at the top of his lungs. A decision made to alert the others. Stealth was contemplated; stay quiet and get to them quickly but by killing that female undead he could have alerted the whole horde that he knew what was happening. So instead he roars. Dave’s huge voice bellowing through the fort. As he sprints across the ground he notices the undead silently rising up.

  Clarence grips his massive hands round the girls narrow waist, staring up at her through misted eyes. The dull ache in his head is nothing compared to the feeling of lust coursing through his system. She leans in, gradually lowering her face towards his. Her lips open, ready for the kiss. With wet cheeks from the hot tears he cried, he breathes hard, waiting for the contact. Dave’s voice booms out. Clarence ignores it, intent only on taking this woman and releasing the tension building so strongly inside him.

  Clarence was always big. Even as a boy he was taller and broader than everyone else his age, and often bigger than those a few years older than him. Because of his abnormal size he was targeted by older kids who had something to prove, and he learnt to fight from very young. Either that or be constantly taking beatings. He had a warrior’s heart and a deep sense of pride and loyalty. Years spent in the Parachute Regiment had instilled a cast iron discipline within his gut. No matter what happens, you always stand by your men. They protect you, they kill for you and they would die for you. The return had to be the same.

  Despite the passion. Despite the lust. Despite the pheromones pumping from the woman which drove all of his subconscious senses crazy, something inside Clarence heard that call to arms.

  The man ignored it. The man gripped the woman harder. The man wanted nothing more than to take the woman.

  But the soldier listened. The soldier heard the call to arms. The soldier heard the order screamed with desperate fury, STAND TO. AMBUSH. Those words resonated with the soldier inside Clarence.

  Mr Howie. The lads. Dave. They are the unit now, the platoon and his brothers. His eyes widen, face becomes contorted as the soldier beats the man back down. The soldier screams the orders and forces Clarence to react. The soldier makes Clarence’s hands reach up and grab the woman by the head and the soldier makes those strong hands twist the head violently, snapping the spinal column, killing the undead woman instantly.

  He launches the body away as he takes to his feet. The blood pumping through his body from the lust is diverted into his muscles. Rage builds. Fury grows as he scoops the corpse up and launches it across the ground into the small group of female undead stood in front of Blowers. The corpse narrowly misses the young lad but takes several of the girls off their feet.

  By the time they start getting back up, Clarence has crossed the ground and grabbed at the woman draped over Blowers. The young lad snarls at Clarence for taking his woman away. Clarence simply pushes him away while yanking the woman back. He
grabs her head, snapping the neck in the same manner as the previous one. Acting on instinct he powers into the women getting to their feet, punching, kicking and smashing them away.

  Dave sprints past the massed undead as they start to stand. Cookey and April stood in front of him, Nick behind with several women on him. Dave veers ever so slightly and reaches out to grab a handful of April’s long flowing locks. Turning as he passes he pulls April clean away from Cookey, sending her spinning off to the side where she sprawls onto the floor. A few more paces and he’s at Nick, hands spinning as he slices the blades into the necks of the women.

  Nick shouts with anger, lashing out towards Dave with fury etched on his face. Dave ducks and spins round to sweep Nick’s legs out, taking him to the floor. The change in the women is instant. The gorgeous, sultry perfect women are gone. Replaced by undead with lips pulled back and faces contorted with violence. April on her feet and snarling at Dave as Cookey staggers towards her with a face full of lust.

  Dave takes in the positions of the women, knowing both Nick and Cookey are unable to fight and will just hinder his movements. With a graceful movement he reaches Cookey and again sweeps his legs out, taking him to the ground as the women charge.

  Nick starts to rise, furious at being denied his women. With one foot, Dave pushes him back down and slices out, ripping a blade through the closest throat. Spinning he kicks the woman away so her pumping blood doesn't go onto the prone lads. Cookey staggers to his feet and turns sluggishly to face two charging women. Dave drops, rolls and comes up in front of Cookey, both arms extended to push a blade deep into each throat. With a deft motion he steps back and again sweeps Cookey’s legs out, the two women still pinned and held on the knife blades. He pivots to draw the women round, using them as a blocking shield to end the charge of another undead.

  Nick roars defiantly, shaking his head and trying again to get back up. Dave doesn't waste breath in shouting but gently hooks his foot round an ankle and pulls it out, Nick collapses with a foul curse.

  April coming in full speed with four behind her, going straight for Cookey. Another two going for Nick, and all of them ignoring Dave almost as if they know he isn’t affected.

  He yanks the blades free of the throats and with a flick of his wrist he sends a blade spinning across the small gap to drive deep into the skull of the nearest one going for Nick, perfectly judged and the impact sends her reeling into the second one, taking them both down and buying a few seconds to deal with the April and her mini horde.

  One knife left. Five women. One drunk lad shouting incoherently as he tries to get back up. Dave takes it all in within a split second, takes two steps and uses Cookey’s back as a platform to leap from, both gaining height and pushing Cookey back down. In the air and he again grabs April’s long hair, jerking her off her feet as he lands amongst them.

  One fist gripping her hair he spins and kicks, using his feet to drive them back away from Cookey. One thrust and one goes down. Wrenching April round to his front he sends her bodily into another one at the same time as stretching out to slice the blade across a soft throat. Knife reversed and he drives the point into the skull of the one April barged into. Knife pulled out just as quickly and he back kicks, slamming his foot into the back of a knee joint. The woman sprawls out just inches from Cookey. Still gripping April, Dave jumps and lands on her back, driving a foot into the spine at the back of her neck and feeling the crack of bone.

  The speed of his movements renders April, as infected and driven as she is, unable to do anything other than be ragged about. The four are down and dead, only April left and one more getting up to charge at Nick. Still holding April, Dave throws the last knife and watches as it sticks in the face, the body slumping down beside Nick.

  Dave snaps his hand back, forcing April to look at him. He locks eyes on her for long seconds, staring through her, staring deep, staring at the thing inside her.

  ‘Please,’ April whimpers in a sudden soft tone. The fury gone, the hunger replaced by a pleading tone, ‘don’t hurt me.’

  Dave stares deep, his face utterly devoid of expression. She begs again, reaching out a hand to touch his arm softly. Tears stream down her cheeks as Dave looks for something, staring hard as though examining her, then he breaks her neck and watches the body slump before retrieving his knives and pulling the lads to their feet.

  Running through the gate I stop dead and gawp at the sight. Every undead within the fort is stood upright and staring at me. Over a thousand figures completely still. Nothing moving. No sound coming from them. The flickering light from the flaming torches bathes them in a soft orange glow which just makes it look worse. Red bloodshot eyes, drool hanging from mouths. These are not the same undead that Marcy brought in. These are feral and wild undead. Hungry and about to be unleashed.

  As one they lift their faces to the sky and begin howling. Screeching in a primeval roar as whatever hold was on them is broken.

  ‘DAVE?’ I scream as loud as I can but the howling drowns me out, my throat hurts from retching up sea water and acidic bile.

  The Saxon. It’s the only chance we’ve got. I start running across the ground cursing that I’ve got only one full magazine in the assault rifle and nothing else.

  The second they stop howling is when they’ll charge. These are fresh and hardly injured, taken with care by Marcy and her group. They’ll be strong, fast and utterly focussed on destroying us. Trying to make the most of it I sprint as hard as I can. My head pounding with pain, stomach churning from the sea water and I feel weak and exhausted. Drained of energy. Making my legs move is so hard. I feel uncoordinated, my breathing is out of whack and my eyes start to water from the effort.

  My head spins as I become dizzy and light-headed, my legs buckle and I fall to the floor landing on the hard compacted ground. Refusing to give up I force myself on, making my legs work. Get to the Saxon and the GPMG, that’s all I have to do. You weak pathetic little man, get up and run. You’ve almost destroyed everything now get up.

  Growling with self-hatred I plough on, only dimly aware as the howling ends. They’ll be coming now. I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked everything up. Manipulated and played like a child. Turned on by some rancid infected thing that lured me into believing I loved her. Lani gone and turned. She was amazing, a warrior but so kind and gentle. She held me close when I cried, she stood at my back when we fought and in the same day she died I tried to get with Marcy.

  Absolute rage at myself burns through my soul. The lads getting drunk, Clarence losing Chris and seeing my sister, his love, cut down by Dave. All those people we saved, all those lives we lost to keep this fort, all of it fucked up for getting turned on by some fucking zombie.

  I will reach that machine gun. I don’t care if I die doing it. I don’t care if I get bitten or killed, I deserve it. Everyone trusted me and I let them down. Me. Howie. Son of Howard. A fucking stupid supermarket manager out of his depth and out of control.

  The growl becomes a roar as the anger at myself builds and threatens to blow me apart. How could I let this happen? What the hell was I thinking off?

  The undead are charging in, moving from my right and heading straight towards me, blocking my path in thick numbers.

  Cold rage has taken over. Like a hand gripping my insides and twisting them up. I raise the rifle and fire the magazine into them. Clearing a few away. The rounds do deadly work, dropping many bodies but the gun clicks empty within seconds and that’s it. I have no weapons. No axe, no knives. Just a heavy gun I can swing about.

  Frustration stops me in my tracks. They aren’t running at me but coming slowly. Turning my head I see they are gathering behind me and blocking my escape. Surrounded and alone with no weapons.

  Marcy. That fucking bitch. Using me. Tricking me. Luring me. Captivated by her beauty. Lani was perfect in every way and I let her die, and now she’s one of them. Everything I ever loved has been taken by these things. We should have stayed in the Saxon and tried to drive out
. We should have seen the outflanking manoeuvre they were doing and got the fuck out of the way. But we didn’t. My vanity and stupidity made us stay and fight. Grinning like a fucking idiot as we charged into them.

  We had everything we needed. Meredith and doctors. We had equipment to test her and find a cure. I should have taken action against Sergeant Hopewell and made sure the fort was secure but I failed at that too.

  Stupid.

  Pathetic.

  Undeserving.

  I don’t see the undead now. Just a reflection of my own self, mirrored back at me. At what I am, at what I tried to be. Mr stupid fucking Howie. Leader of the living army. Saviour of mankind. Heroic and strong.

  My face lifts to the sky as I scream in pure frustration, copying the undead in their nightly howl. Every ounce of my being is projected into my rage. Even the thought that I held Marcy in my mind when I was fighting makes me feel sick.

  I’m fucked. Surrounded on all sides and they’re moving in slowly. They know I can’t get away from this one. Without Dave and Clarence, without the lads, without the dog I am nothing. I’ve blagged and tricked my way this far and finally, finally they have seen through me. Out-played, out-manoeuvred, out-tricked and fucked.

  My god I hate them. I hate them more than anyone has ever hated anything. Nothing I have ever felt before comes close to this. It takes over, building with greater pressure. Panting for breath, my eyes fixed open and staring down at the ground. There is no being saved this time.

  Fuck it. My fault so take it on the chin and go down fighting. Chris was the proper hero, he kept them back long enough for Meredith to get away and then, when he knew he was beaten, he took his own life. He trusted me to do the right thing and I failed him. He could be watching me now, shaking his bearded face with a look of sadness. Howie, what did you do? You lost everything. We all trusted you.

  Lifting my head slowly I fix my gaze on the closest undead in front of me. Baleful expressions, low evil sounding groans coming from them. Saliva hanging down from chins, dripping onto their chests. Hands clawed, eyes staring at me unblinking and consumed with hatred.