The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  Not just five a day, but most times he was ten fruit and veg a day. His meat had been organic, his food was GM free. Eggs came from free range hens and he avoided processed food like the devil had made it himself.

  Now he had a simple life, and one that hadn’t changed that much. Apart from now living out of a van in a field and making the odd trip into the towns and villages to find the bits and pieces he needed.

  The shotguns had been sourced from farms and he read about the advantages and disadvantages of sawn off versus long barrel. In the end he opted for both. Keeping the big one at the van and the two sawn offs in his bag for ease of carriage.

  The sword had been taken from an antique shop. It was strong with a long blade and decent handle. The balance and weight were perfect and after finding a grindstone and then reading how to put a new edge on he was away; learning how to cut and thrust. Practising for many hours in his field to build his strength up. And it was a good weapon too. The sharp point easily penetrated the sternum to pierce the heart or if they were slow enough he went for the eye socket and the brain.

  Cornered or fighting hard and he used the weight and long cutting edge to slash and hack. He had body armour found in the back of an abandoned police car and had taken the small round riot shield too, adding it to his supplies.

  It was hot and he didn’t feel like studying right now. The pressure of the day had been hard and finding out he almost had Diabetes and incredibly high blood pressure had worried him immensely. He needed distraction and humour. So navigating the menu he flicked between the Flashman series by George Macdonald Fraser or maybe some Discworld fun instead, Terry Pratchett always made him feel better, and that crazy wizard Rincewind always brings a smile to his face.

  Discworld it is so he settles back into his luxury executive folding chair, makes sure his mug of Earl Grey tea is within reach and extends his legs to rest his feet on the edge of the van step.

  A few pages in and the ambience starts working; the heat of the day, the stillness of the air, the soothing quality of the tea, the background noise of birds chirping and singing and his eyes are closing. Lids blinking slower and slower and with each drop of the lids, they find it increasingly hard to lift back up.

  He lets it take him, sinking deeper into the chair as his head falls down, chin resting low. Eyes closed.

  Eyes awake and open. Bathed in sweat and going from sitting to standing and holding both shotguns ready within a split second. Dusk and the heavy curtain of night is coming down quickly. He slept too long and came awake too quickly. Heart racing as he stares around, slowly lowering the shotguns and taking a deep steadying breath.

  The Kindle is on the floor having slipped from his lap while he slept. He feels sticky and uncomfortable and his shirt clings to his body. Head fuggy and slow, brain working to catch up.

  There’s just no air here, it feels stagnant and oppressive. Putting the sawn offs down he reaches into the van and pulls out a bottle of water, taking a long drink to re-hydrate from the liquid lost while he slept. The remainder of the bottle is poured over his head, soaking the sweat away and sending a pleasant shiver down his spine.

  He stretches, pushing his arms out and arching his torso, wincing at the pain in his lower back from staying in the same position for too long. Twisting side to side he tries to stretch it out but it doesn't go.

  It’s just muscle pain from sleeping he tells himself but the seed was planted as soon as he felt it, not only planted but watered and harvested too. It might not be muscle pain, it could be a growth, something spreading towards his kidneys and liver.

  His heart flutters in panic as he feels the icy grip of fear clutch and twist his stomach. This is it. It’s starting and it will be incurable. Even if a team of doctors walked in this field right now with all the equipment they would ever need, it would be too late. The tumours are growing so fast they are attacking all of his organs at the same time.

  ‘Stop it,’ he says firmly, shaking his head. He stands in a relaxed manner and draws a long breath in through his nose inflating his stomach in an exaggerated manner. Then he releases and exhales slowly from his mouth, sucking his stomach in and exhaling as far as he can.

  He repeats the relaxation technique several times, flooding his system with oxygen which resets the nitrogen levels and helps balance the brain chemistry.

  Opening his eyes after several minutes of breathing he feels calmer, his vision sharper and everything suddenly not so bad.

  A quick fix that doesn't make it go away but it helps, and right now, he’ll take all the help he can get.

  But that pain is still there, nagging away. He tries feeling his own back, groping his hands round to run over his skin, expecting to find a huge lump. Nothing there so he tries looking round, like a dog chasing its tail which is fruitless and has him chastising himself within a few seconds.

  Must be a rash there, some tell-tale sign of a horrendous illness starting to develop. But he feels fine other than the back ache, a tiny dull headache from sleeping during the day but nothing else.

  ‘Shit,’ he knows what’s coming as the nagging starts, telling him the tumours have spread up his spine and into his brain already. They’re growing now and will cause his head to cease functioning.

  Should he take the painkillers now or later? But taking painkillers just masks the pain, it doesn't fix the problem. And it’s dangerous taking painkillers, they can rot your stomach lining and make you ill.

  No, better to monitor the rate of spreading so he can chart whatever disease he is developing. Checking his watch he realises he slept too long and is behind on time. Mind you, not that it really mattered, but then those self-help books all said that the key to success was self-discipline and maintaining a strict regime.

  He wasn’t sure he actually believed in a lot of the stuff within those books. Yes it was important to stay focussed and keep the mind active but surely those books were written for morons who couldn’t otherwise think their way out of a paper bag.

  No real person in their right mind would actually read a self-help book would they? Mind you, the sales ranking on the sites were high so the market was obviously a big one.

  Stripping his t shirt off he grabs the long sleeve black wicking top and shrugs it on. The material clings to his body like a second skin, tight and specially designed to draw the sweat away and remain breathable. Modern materials like this were a god send for his night time activities.

  He takes the sawn offs from his day bag and places them next to the night bag. Many hours had been spent getting the night bag just right, stitching compartments and making adjustments so everything would fit and be readily accessible.

  Two long hand stitched sections in the main compartment that held the shotguns barrel down with the butts poking out and easy to grab. They didn’t rattle or sway and were held snug but without the risk of snagging when drawn quickly.

  Inside the main compartment were black latex medical gloves, first aids kits, bottles of water and high energy snack bars. Plus painkillers and now a bottle of Corsodyl mouthwash with a spare toothbrush and paste. Can never be too careful when it comes to mouth hygiene.

  Antiseptic wipes, anti-bacterial gel and then the specially designed back quiver that had been stitched in. He had tried a leg quiver, and undoubtedly the leg quiver made it easier to draw the arrows and was perfect for timed competition shoots, but it impeded movement especially when it was full.

  The back quiver was the only alternative but he also had to carry the bag with the shotguns and other things he needed, so the quiver was incorporated into the bag, and then tested, adjusted, tested again and re-adjusted until it was just right.

  He checks each arrow as it goes in. The carbon fibre hunting arrows were barbed with screw tips and specially designed for penetration but not to travel through the target. Each one was thirty inches long and he examined the straightness of the shaft, felt the weight and examined each fletch before placing it point first into the quiver. With
the quiver full he takes the spare arrow heads and pushes them into a side pocket along with the shotgun cartridges.

  In the van he stares at the side wall with the range of bows hanging from hooks. Definitely the compound bow. He’d used the recurve and straight bows several times, just to keep his hand in and have the novelty factor. But the compound was by far the best.

  Eighty pound draw weight reduced to just fifteen pound pull weight, and holding fifteen pound on your fingertips was far easier than eighty pounds. He checked the pulley cam wheels at the ends for sign of corrosion or resistance. The bow was well cared for and in perfect working order.

  About to leave the van he stares for a second at the wooden shafted long bow, considering if he should take that one for tonight. But the heavy draw weight would just aggravate the giant tumours growing in his back, best to stick with the compound.

  He liked the name of manufacturer had given the bow too; The Black Knight. It resonated with him, the play on words with knight and night, blackness, dark, saviour and righteous but with a hint of a dark side, and he had a sword too, like a proper knight would have. Only he wasn’t a knight, he was a normal bloke with extreme anxiety and a propensity to get obsessed with his own health. He knew that and was under no pretensions and no illusions either.

  The last thing to be taken before he locked the van up were the night vision goggles. They were tugged on to his head and held in place by thick elastic straps. Almost night now so he pulls them down, staring at everything bathed in differing shades of green. Pushed back up onto his forehead he pulls the bag on, double checks the van is locked, grabs the bow and starts off. Then walks back and checks the van is really locked.

  Across the field and he stops at the gate, worried that maybe he didn’t lock the van properly. Better to be safe so he trots back and goes round tugging each handle several times before setting off again.

  Back at the gate he has to force himself to keep going, knowing the van is locked and secure and ignoring that nagging urge telling him to go check again.

  Into the Volvo and back to the layby, swap over and into the hatchback, then drive towards town. Once at the outside of the town he first switches the headlights off then pulls the night vision goggles down. The moon is bright so the ambient light is perfect for the night vision aid.

  Selecting a quiet side street he parks up and checks the vehicle is locked before leaving the key on top of the front driver side tyre. That saved having to dig into pockets if he was moving in a hurry.

  Chest strap securely fastened, waist strap likewise, arrow drawn and placed on the arrow rest, nock the groove of the arrow into the string and he walks on. His left hand holding the frame with his right hand holding the undrawn arrow in the string.

  Archery had always made him feel better. It was the only time he didn’t worry about lumps, tumours, growths, rashes, illnesses, sore throats or what disease and illness he has today. On the range, whether it was practise or competition he felt at peace and soothed. The constant action of taking the arrow and checking it over. An arrow had no internal parts, it was smooth and straight and exactly what it was. It couldn’t develop tumours or growths either. He liked arrows.

  He liked the action, the repeating action of arrow rest, nock, loose. Arrow rest, nock, loose. It was soothing. Adjusting for rain or high winds, gauging the distance, selecting what bow to use, what design of arrow and then just firing them.

  Highly skilled and an exceptional shot but he only ever went for local competitions and such was his skill level, he purposefully made sure he never won first place. Often adjusting to precisely land the arrow an inch away so he would come second or third. The problem with first place was that everyone wanted to talk to you after, shake your hand, take a photograph maybe and then the awards ceremony too. He hated speaking to groups of people and didn’t like unwanted attention. Second or third place meant you kept some dignity but avoided the limelight.

  His club had long since put it down to on-the-day-nerves as they knew he could shoot better than anyone else. He’d even started to fire badly at the club lately as they were starting to talk about coaching him for nerves to get him ready for bigger competitions, even mentioning the nationals and the England team try outs.

  The best days were when it was just him in the field, alone with his bow and the target. Then he could fire properly and land every arrow exactly where he wanted it. If there was risk of anyone else turning up he kept the target at the standard ninety metre range, but on those rare occasions when he knew he would be alone, he would shift it back to one hundred and fifty metres and then all the way to the two hundred metre mark. They were the best shots as he had to take so much into consideration; the weight of the arrow tip, the breeze, humidity and atmospheric conditions. And over time, as with anything done many times, it became second nature. An instinct done without conscious thought. Visualising where he wanted the arrow to be and making it happen.

  Along with the trips to the vehicle auto centres he also went to the club and secured the best bows they had, plus every arrow they had in stock too. Strings, arrow heads, lubricants for the cams and wheels, everything was taken and loaded into his van.

  Living alone meant he wasn’t encumbered by anyone else and he could move quickly to get out of the population density zones, selecting isolated fields with good visual range.

  It had worked well and kept him alive for the last twelve days and the step from survivor to hunter had been a natural one. He wanted to survive. They wanted to eat him. The less of them there were meant the greater chance he had of not being eaten. Simple, and within a few days of being set up he noticed how hard it was to get into the town to source the things he needed.

  He’d hunted them in the day at first as they were slow and easy but once they changed and got faster and meaner he switched to night hunting. Using shadows and stealth to pick them off like an archery sniper, fire a few and run. Fire again and run. It was slow but effective and whittled them down and above all else; it gave his head some peace and quiet and something else to think about other than his impending slow and painful death.

  Quiet. Far too quiet. Half an hour of walking the side streets and he’d yet to see a single zombie. Plenty of bodies and quite a lot of them done by him on previous nights. But he knew there were plenty left.

  So where were they?

  At the end of a residential street he stands contemplating the direction to go. Carry on through the safer residential zones or go into town? His back was aching and he could feel the tumours growing quickly and it was only a matter of time before they burst out and caused him untold pain and agony.

  The town. He takes a right turn and walks steadily along, his night vision goggled head turning constantly left and right, and every few steps he did a full turn to check all directions. The clarity of the image was fantastic, the moon providing enough natural light to make the view almost pin sharp.

  Nothing in the next street, nor the street after that. Houses silent, dark and empty. The only sound was the tread of his boots on the ground and his low controlled breathing. Sweat was forming on his head, making the elastic band of the goggles itch and worry him. Pausing at a junction he ducks into the deep shadows of a front garden and takes a drink of water while rubbing his head and wiping the straps down with a paper towel.

  Pressing on and still nothing. No movement and no sounds. He reaches the edge of the town centre, the top end where all the cheap shops were located. The road was much wider here than the side streets and he took a couple of minutes to look at each premises, the doorways, windows and alleys branching off. Listening intently but still seeing and hearing nothing. Then a bang further down the road out of sight. It sounded like a car door.

  Keeping to the edge of the building line he stalks down the street, scanning and watching every entrance, constantly turning to check behind.

  The road slopes down on a gentle decline and reaching the crest he holds position and stares down at the small gr
oup gathered round a vehicle. Gripping the arrow he pulls it back just an inch and keeping low he starts moving forward. There must be someone in that car. They got in and slammed the door closed to keep the zombies away. But they’re not attacking but just stood there, moving round slowly.

  One of the car doors opens as someone clambers out to stand talking to the others. The zombies had been changing a lot over the last few days but he’d never seen them getting in and out of cars before.

  People. Normal people. Other survivors. Stepping out of the building line he walks into the middle of the road and starts towards them with the bow pointed down.

  The people at the car keep turning to look about and spot him within a few seconds. He raises an arm to wave, knowing he can see them much clearer than they can see him.

  Their body language changes, becoming worried as they start to load items stacked on the ground into the car and then another one parked in the front.

  With just a couple of hundred metres to go he notices them talking and peering at him, the men pointing as though explaining something to the women and children.

  ‘Hi, is it okay to approach?’ He calls out at the hundred metre point.

  ‘You the bow and arrow guy?’ One of the men shouts back.

  ‘The bow and arrow guy? I’ve got a bow and some arrows…does that make me the bow and arrow guy?’

  ‘We seen you before, we was watching when you shot the things with the bow, few nights ago on Prince Street.’

  ‘Prince Street? Yes I remember that one, have you seen the zombies? I can’t find any.’

  ‘No mate.’

  ‘Can I come over?’

  ‘Er…yeah I guess so,’ the spokesman looks to his group for confirmation.

  ‘I don’t suppose any of you are doctors are you?’ He asks quickly, walking towards them with his bow now held right down.

  ‘Doctor? No mate, you hurt then?’

  ‘Not injured no, no nurses or anything like that? Vet maybe?’