The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  Are they clever enough to start searching buildings? Would they do that? They must have seen the direction she ran in.

  Time passes slowly. She counts seconds into minutes and checks her watch to test her accuracy, but counting in her head like that makes it feel so slow.

  Should she go now or wait longer? Her instinct is telling to wait for darkness. They’re faster and meaner at night but she stands a better chance of moving through the shadows and getting back to her vehicle at night. What if they’ve found it and set up a trap? That needs to be factored in and assessed. She did lock it so they can’t get inside and wait for her. It can’t be that far away, maybe a mile at the most and with all the street lights out this place will be very dark. She knows which direction the hills are so just aim for them and she’ll find her way back. After that? Well, the town is too full for her to attack them without a serious plan in place. Withdraw and think it through, that’s the best option. Find DIY stores in other places and set traps up on the roads.

  But then why are they all here? This town is isolated, only a few roads in and the hills on one side and the sea on the other. No reason to come here unless it is for something specific. Out of sight too. Maybe just a safe place for them to stay, but that doesn't make sense. Stay here for what reason? Just for sake of staying here? No. Something else. Something nearby that they want and they need large numbers for.

  What was that? A noise inside her small room, a faint scuffing sound. Listening intently she convinces herself it as her imagination before it happens again. A noise like paper rustling. Rats maybe? Coming silently out of the toilet bowl to lurk and scurry about. Rats don’t bother Paula, but the thought of the room slowly filling up with them sends a shiver down her spine.

  Slowly she feels for her lighter and draws it out of her pocket, feeling for the serrated wheel to push down on. The small flame flickers brightly, illuminated the tiny room. She casts about but nothing there. A rat would be seen instantly in here.

  Outside, another noise. Something scuffing against the back of building. Then the rustling from inside the room comes again, faint but quick. Worried that the lighter make noise she feels for the small pen torch in her pockets. Groping about and gently prising it free from the depths of her cargo trousers. The end twists on, no buttons to press that make noise.

  She holds the torch ready, intently listening for it to happen again. Outside, more scuffing and then a low groan. They must be at the back, right by the rear doors. A dull thud then another followed by something crashing to the floor in the staff room. Stock still she remains, her hand gripping the torch, eyes wide and mouth open slightly.

  It has to be the cardboard she put across the window, they’ve pushed it in and knocked something from the counter top.

  The rustling from inside again. She twists the end of the torch, the powerful beam of light sweeps over the room picking out the bit of crumpled paper in the corner. Keeping the torch on it she watches as it twitches and moves. Staring with interest as it jerks with tiny movements.

  Another bang as something else falls from the counter in the staff room. Faint groans and louder scuffing noises. They have to be climbing through the window.

  The bit of paper twitches again as she both watches while listening to the noises coming from outside.

  No. Please not that. Anything but that. Give me rats or a mouse, anything but that. She holds the torch on the ball of paper watching as the legs start to appear, one then two, three…more come into sight as they grip and pull the huge hairy body up onto the paper. The weight of it flattens the magazine sheet as it sits on top. Eight thick legs branching off from a thick body.

  Revulsion grips her as tight as the knot of fear inside her gut. Not here, not now. Anything but that. But the spider doesn't care. It senses the change in the air and feels something else is in here. This place is quiet and dark and lately there have been plenty of flies to eat and now something bigger has come in. Something bigger that needs investigating.

  Paula listens in abject terror as the first of the undead falls from the counter to land on the floor with a loud thump and a groan. Then another one. The spider lifts front legs to hold them in the air as though waving at her.

  It’s big, bigger than anything she has seen before. Like a mini tarantula with thick legs and solid body. The glossy magazine ball rustles again as it moves. The spider has actual weight that can impact on something else. It moves forward and starts to drop down from the ball, front legs on the floor with the body extended back over the crumpled material.

  Sweat pours from her face and drips down her neck. Skin crawling and a feeling of being sick threatens to take over. Since a young child her phobia of spiders has terrified her and many times sent her running and screaming from her room to find her mother and tell her about the eight legged monster on the wall.

  Evil malevolent things not from this world. Oozing predator and the way they scurry then stop, and dangle from invisible thread. Lifting their feet up and down gently, twitching and bursting away with a speed that frightens her even more.

  This one goes slow, painfully and dreadfully slow which is all the worst for it. She knows she could extend a foot and crush it instantly but the thought of it roots her to the spot. That she would miss and it would jump onto her leg and run up to her waist and over her clothes to get her face. An image of the thing climbing into her mouth, feeling as the teeth or the pincers start taking bites.

  Gritting her teeth she suppresses the whimper threatening to spill out and slowly draws her legs in, pulling her knees to her chest. Behind her, the sound of feet scuffing across the floor get closer.

  Unable to move now, completely frozen to the spot she keeps her eyes fixed on the eight legged freak as it climbs down deftly from the ball of paper to sit low and squat on the ground. It looks even worse now with those legs splayed out, the classic perfect shape of an enormous house spider. Pure evil radiates from its thick body sending pulsing waves of terror flooding through Paula. She clamps a hand over her mouth, squeezing tight to stop any sound coming out. Her hand holding the torch starts to shake, tiny trembling motions that flicker the beam of light and make the spider dart forward an inch closer to her.

  Groans come from outside as the undead shuffle about, sensing her closeness, smelling her trail but unable to see her.

  The spider darts another inch. Paula screws her face up and fights the urge to scream with every ounce of strength she has.

  Rooted, frozen, trapped and utterly terrified she watches as it remains still. Testing the air and she imagines it sniffing and detecting her fear which must be coming off her in buckets.

  The things outside become animated, knowing she must be somewhere, knowing she was in that room. They can smell her, they know she was here.

  The spider watches through many eyes and slowly lifts one leg, then another…then another and takes a few tentative steps forward. Slow and careful, watchful as it stalks the prey.

  With her feet drawn in the spider has maybe just a few feet before it gets to her, and it would take a second or less if it ran flat out.

  She wills herself to think that the creature is small and she is big. It cannot harm her and the bite would be far less than a wasp or bee, no worse than nettle rash. But the thought of one of those legs touching her body, even her clothing or boot is too much to take.

  They’re closer now, shuffling towards the door. Groaning with hunger as they move and look and search. The spider twitches and takes another step, the legs rippling with hateful coordination. Stopping after every movement to sense and sniff and taste the air.

  So close now she can pick out the stubby hairs on its body and the joints of the legs. Thick straight line of the first section, then a joint and another straight bit, then another joint. Too many joints like knees, too many straight lines that make it look made instead of created by nature. Two stubby pincers stick out from the front, extended eyes like mini legs that waver and move about.

 
One front legs lifts high and then back down. She can’t look away, she can’t move or do anything but sit here trying to squeeze herself against the door while sending mental orders begging and pleading for it to just go back. Have your end of the room, stay there and I’ll stay here. We don’t have to touch each other. Please just go back. I won’t stay, I promise I will go as soon as I can.

  But the spider doesn't think like that. It detects her presence and wants to know what it is that disturbs its lair. What is this thing that comes in here after so much time of darkness and quiet. Curiosity and an ever growing need to eat pushes the spider on. One step, then two. Getting closer each time.

  Inside her mind she screams and wails. Her hand now pushing so hard against her mouth she can hardly breathe. Forcing herself to take short soft breaths through her nose instead. Aware of every inch of her own body, of the hard floor underneath her, the hard door pressed against her back. The foul air within this tiny room that chokes and makes her want to gag. Sweat dripping freely down her face, sliding in warm salty rivers over her fingers.

  Shit, right at the door now. They must be just steps away. She can hear the ragged breaths they take, inhale and exhale. Another low groan that sounds just inches away. The rustle of clothing as one of them moves.

  The spider darts an inch and stops perfectly still. Less than twelve inches from the tips of her boots now. The torch light wavers for a split second then steadies again. The fear ramps up another notch. The things outside brush against the tyres she stacked up, knocking one of them off which bounces against the door. She feels the vibration through her back.

  Move your foot and crush it. That’s all you have to do, just step down and kill it. But what if it darts or jumps and lands on her. What if the feet touch her skin?

  It knows it is close now, the heat coming from the new arrival is strong. Something with that much heat must have food. Flies, maggots and prey love heat, the spider knows this and takes another step towards her foot.

  Paula stares down with wide eyes, the body of the creature is so big, so squat and heavy. Just one step to go and it will touch her.

  Vibration against the door and she feels something brush against it. Chesty breathing just the other side. A long inhalation like it’s smelling the air. It thumps against the door, not an attack but a clumsy motion as it navigates the littered floor.

  The spider makes the final move and steps to the front of her boot. Lifting one foot it taps the outer edge of her boot. Too light and she can’t feel it, but her imagination runs wild with sensation. Vomit threatening to purge up from her stomach.

  Eyes watering from not blinking. The torch light wavers, dims and comes back to full strength. She wills it to stay on, she wills the spider to go away, she wills the things outside to give up and leave.

  But today her will is ignored. The gods do not cast favourably upon Paula this day, for as the light grows weaker so the spider uses those strong legs to embed the claws into her boot and start to climb up, the motion is smooth and controlled and it sits on the front of her boot, mere millimetres above her toes. It claims the victory and knows it has almost defeated the invader for she will die from a heart attack any second. The life giving organ in her chest booms so fast her head spins. Terror like no other grips her. A primeval urge to kick out and stamp and stamp while screaming. Move fast, clench your eyes and stamp while beating your hands against your body. Do that and kill it but scream so you don’t know you kill it. Scream and panic so you don’t feel the thick body slowly crushing under hand or under-foot.

  They can smell the fear. The stench of the toilet masked her odour, stale and old and they knew it wasn’t the fresh scent of a host waiting to be taken. But now, now there is fear and fresh sweat and it’s right here. Right behind this door.

  Bumps and bangs as they move against the wooden door, scuffing and shuffling, feet gliding over the concrete floor. Hard breaths getting faster as they sense the proximity of her.

  Torch light dims, slowly fading to a dull glow that weakly illuminates the spider. She shakes her hand, desperately trying to get battery juice to make the bloody light work. The brave torch rallies and fights her corner, pushing a bright light out for a few seconds. But the power drains and no matter how hard the little torch fights it cannot hold on and the beam weakens and fades once more.

  The motion of her shake vibrates her body, the sensitive feet of the spider feels the movement and darts an inch, then another. Reaching her laces and starting the slow steady climb towards her leg.

  Every muscle is tensed and straining sending waves of energy that pulse from her body. The spider detects the energy and the pheromones she emits, the slight quaver of the tensed contracted muscle.

  Cramp starts to grow in the back of her thigh. A tightness that pulls at her hamstring. Searing pain shoots out. Her body urging her to release the muscle and stretch the leg out before injury is sustained.

  Another bang against the door. The spider moves. The torch grows weaker still. Tears fall from her eyes as the pain grows and cramps the muscle up, sending shooting barbs of agony into the cheeks of her backside and down the length of her thigh.

  The torch dies.

  She breathes out in panic.

  The spider goes for her leg, the weight of it plucking at the material which she feels.

  The things drive harder against the door.

  Instinct takes over. Intelligence is gone now. The spider will kill her, it will devour her slowly and lay spider eggs in her mouth that will hatch and thousands of the creatures will climb down her throat to eat her insides and drink from the tears pooling in her eyes.

  The cramped leg shoots out, thudding her backwards against the door. She’s on her feet less than a second later. Stamping. Stamping. Hitting at her own body. Clenched fists beating at every inch of her legs. Forgetting the things on the other side of the door she yanks the handle down bursts out, slamming the door into the nearest one. She runs flat into the next one but the power of her panic is so great she sends it sprawling.

  The spider had already dropped off and scampered across the toilet back to its corner, but convinced the creature is still on her she beats and hits and stamps down. Vaguely aware of the thing coming at her she lashes out, punching it hard in the side of the head and driving it down to the floor. The only thing she doesn't do is scream. Some intrinsic part of her brain prevents that so she fights quietly. Killing the hundreds of spiders that must now be crawling up her legs and stomach while stamping down on the undead at her feet. Breaking fingers, arms, legs and then beating the skull to a pulp.

  The second one rallies and surges in. She doesn't realise or plan the move but the simple explosion of her panic reigns blow after blow into it, driving it down where her feet keep stomping and stamping.

  She backs away from the area and scrabbles at her clothes. Convinced the spider has got inside her top she rips it off and stands there in her bra shaking it hard, then throwing it down to stamp on that too.

  No, it got inside her trousers. Definitely inside her trousers. She beats every inch of her legs. Sitting down on the ground to press the backs of her legs into the ground while she pummels the front and sides.

  Not the legs, her hair. It must have gone for the hair. The baseball cap is thrown down and stamped on, then open hands beat her head all over. But that hurts so she grabs handfuls of hair and clenches her fists, intending to crush and kill any giant evil spiders lurking there.

  Topless, bruised, with a painful arse cheek and hair disarrayed she slows down and starts to come back to earth. Breathing hard and the panic abates, easing back gently as common sense screams that the two inch spider must have been killed a hundred times over by now.

  Her top is on the floor, her hat further away. The rifle is still in the toilet, left there when she burst out. Two dead bodies lie bleeding with broken bones and crushed skulls. Did she do that? Bloody hell.

  She checks the top for any spider corpses and pulls it on, then her
hat, beating it against her leg and checking the inch of folded material round the sweat band. Smoothing her hair down she walks quickly to the toilet, peering in and checking the spider hasn’t booby trapped the rifle. All clear so she leans in to grasp the barrel, glancing up to see the fucking thing sat back on top of the paper ball.

  It sticks one finger up as she backs away, taunting her and daring to come and try again. sod that, she pushes the door closed and moves well away, almost convinced it will batter the door down to try and attack her again.

  She shudders with the after-effects, legs shaking from adrenalin burning off. Standing quietly in the middle of the room she gets her breathing back under control and holds steady until her heart rate goes back to normal. No more noises from outside. No sounds at all. No steps or scuffs.

  Another hour to wait then it will be dusk, just hang on till then and get ready to run.

  Sixteen

  He kicks the door hard, cursing as it refuses to yield. He kicks again harder this time and the door bursts open. Oh yes, there they are; laid out and safe inside the stock room. A feeling of relief floods through him.

  Turning round he glances to the front of the shop, checking for movement or sound. He doesn't care if the zombies come here. They can be killed and dealt with. They are visible and real and actual foes that can be chopped, sliced, shot, stabbed or run away from. No, they don’t bother him one little bit.

  The butts of two sawn off shotguns poke from the top of his rucksack, in easy reach and ready to be pulled out and used. A heavy bladed sword hangs between his back and the bag, the hilt sticking up behind his shoulder, also ready to be pulled out and used.

  Knives on his belt, one on either side. Shotgun shells in the side pockets of his trousers. Food and water in his bag but this, this in here is what he needs.