by RR Haywood
The boss is being taken away to be killed alone, and there is nothing they can do. They fight and attack, getting many kills but not enough and they feel the growing sense of hopelessness spreading inside.
Lani doesn't fight. She doesn't attack or try to cut them down. Instead she senses they want Howie so she pushes through them. They don’t go for her but do the job they are told to do and swirl and move and create confusion.
Lani goes with it, pushing and squeezing through gaps as she searches for Howie. She knows she cannot fight them off and doesn't care for anything other than being with him. Just to hold his hand while they both get taken. To give him that same comfort he gave her every night, holding her tight as they cried. She knows he is special but to her is special in so many different ways.
So polite, so unassuming but that ferocious passion that comes into him. That drive to win through and defeat such massively superior numbers. Even tonight they could have just driven far away and never had to fight again, but Howie knew those children were up here so he attacked just so he could stand with them.
Howie took that Saxon and drove it into the masses, then fought his way up to the top for nothing more than to give hope. He attacked that wall of bodies as he saw a task that needed to be done so he went at it.
The pain he felt at last night with Marcy was obvious. It was etched into every line in his face. He was heartbroken at what happened, even though he didn’t have any control over it he took the responsibility without complaint.
Lani doesn't know how or why she isn’t infected now but she does know it has something to do with Howie.
She knew she loved him. She loved him dearly and would give her life for him to live another day, another hour, another minute. That’s why she pushes on, just to hold his hand that one last time, so he can feel the warmth of someone that loves him when he goes down, so she can tell him how thankful they all are that he was there, but it’s too late.
Howie is gone. She feels it but pushes on, her heart fracturing into a thousand pieces but she pushes on. She will get to Howie and if he’s dead then she will die too. If he’s turned she will kill him then die too.
Forty
The infection has Howie. It sent wave after wave at them but finally, now after thirteen days it has the special one.
The patterns it created worked perfectly and drew Howie away from the others. It wanted him isolated and alone and in the end an opportunity arose for the purest source of the infection to be passed. Straight from the still beating heart into his mouth, so the blood can drip down his throat and be ingested directly.
It has Howie.
The objective is complete.
Those special few across the world can now be understood and the power they have can be used to take more hosts.
The infection will survive and it will succeed.
Forty One
The infection was in the finger severed by Howie’s mouth. The infection was in the juices of the eyeball that burst and dropped into Howie’s mouth. The infection was in the heart that pumped thick arterial blood into Howie’s mouth.
The infection did what it has always done and attacked the cells. Entering the blood stream it was carried round the body in seconds. Attacking every cell within his form. Organs were attacked. Nerves were attacked. Veins and skin cells were attacked.
The blood pumped the infection into the brain and that too was attacked.
Of all the battles that Howie has been in since the event happened; none of them are as one sided as the battle taking place inside his own body.
The infection drives on and within minutes it is in every part of his body. And within minutes it has turned not a single cell.
Instead, Howie’s body takes the natural anti-body it has and produces more of it. It produces lots of it.
Then those anti-bodies go into the bloodstream and remove the infection. The battle is one sided as the anti-bodies are far, far stronger than the infection. It is eradicated and removed. It ceases to be.
Howie’s heart pumps the pure blood and kills the infection. In turn, the infection senses the loss taking place and tries to counter-act by mutating and burying deep within tissues. But the anti-bodies are ruthless and seek them out.
The infection now knows why Howie is feared.
He cannot be turned.
He is immune.
DAY FOURTEEN
One
‘This is nice,’ Mum grins at me as she places the steaming bowl of broccoli onto the table, ‘we haven't had a family dinner for ages.’
I smile back, pleased to see her happy. Dad walks in and takes his seat at the head of the table. A kind man with an easy nature, he raises his eyebrows suggestively as he picks up the carving knife and sharpening steel.
‘Oh Dad,’ Sarah sighs theatrically, ‘are you going to go through the whole routine again?’
Dad smiles slowly and starts to run the knife blade up and down the steel, quietly humming to himself. The way he does it always gets me laughing, his comical expression adopting a serious face as he focuses on the sharpening.
‘Howard!’ Mum calls from the kitchen, ‘don’t you sit there playing with the knife, that meat won’t stay hot for ever.’
‘Yes dear,’ my dad replies in a sing song, faraway voice that sets me off grinning again. I watch the knife glinting from the sunlight streaming through the net curtains. Up and down, with a soft sound as the blade is gently stroked along the steel.
‘Here Howie, your favourite,’ another bowl is placed down, this one being strategically placed closest to me and filled with Mum’s crispy roast potatoes. Just the sight of them makes my mouth water. I know they’ll be crunchy on the outside but fluffy and white on the inside.
‘Favouritism,’ Sarah mutters with a smile. She then looks up as Mum places a bowl of corn cobs in front of her, bright yellow with butter melting down the sides.
‘You were saying?’ I ask her.
‘No favouritism in this house,’ Mum laughs, ‘Howie has his roast spuds and Sarah has her cobs.’
‘What about me?’ Dad looks up with an expectant expression.
‘You dear,’ Mum smiles, ‘get the sprouts.’
‘Urgh,’ he grimaces and returns to his knife sharpening.
Mum takes a seat, pulling her chair in as she swipes the sharpening steel from Dad.
‘So how’s work then?’ She directs the question at Sarah as she lives in London now and they don’t get to see her much.
‘Good,’ Sarah nods, ‘very busy but yeah, it’s pretty good.’
‘And life in the big city?’ Dad asks.
Sarah half smiles and sighs, ‘it’s okay,’ she replies slowly, ‘not the nicest place in the world but it serves a purpose for now.’
‘So?’ Mum asks pointedly.
‘What?’ Sarah replies with a blank expression, ‘oh, not that again,’ she adds as realisation dawns, ‘noooo,’ she smiles, ‘no men.’
‘Want some beef Howie?’ Dad asks. I look up to see him standing over the joint of meat, holding the blade just above the surface of the meat, ‘it’s lovely and juicy Howie.’
The blade bites in, slicing a thick wedge of beef. The outside of the meat is charred to perfection and the inside is pink with dribbles of blood forming on the serving plate.
‘Look at that,’ Dad says, impressed at the quality of the meat.
‘You do like your meat, don’t you Howie,’ Mum smiles. I glance at her but my eyes snap back to the bloody joint. The cooked flesh that bleeds onto the plate. The knife that saws back and forth, slicing deep, peeling the layers away.
My stomach revolts at the sight and a wave of nausea passes through me. Breathing hard, I realise how hot it has suddenly got. Sweat pours off me, dripping onto the table cloth and I sweep my hand through my hair, brushing the perspiration away. My hand is filthy, encrusted with grime and dirt.
I shove it under the table feeling ashamed that I never washed my hands before sitting down to dinner
. I don’t think they notice as Dad keeps sawing at the meat, carving and chopping thick wedges of flesh away. Blood spurts from the joint, spraying onto the pristine white table cloth.
They don’t notice but keep chatting. The blood sprays higher, splashing against the wine glasses and into the bowl of roast potatoes.
Dad smiles but he doesn't look happy now. He looks mean and angry, hacking at the meat harder and harder. Sawing away as his lips purse and a light film of sweat covers his forehead.
‘Go on Dad,’ Sarah urges, ‘kill it…’
‘It’s already dead,’ I blurt out. They all stare at me like I’m five and have just said a swear word at the table. ‘What’s happening?’ I glance round, fear escalating into terror. Pure, unadulterated horror, a feeling of impending doom, that something terrible is about to happen.
‘Gee Howie, you don’t look so good.’ My head snaps to the other end of the table. He smiles with big perfect white teeth, framed by flawless skin and that world famous face.
‘Paco?’ I whimper.
‘Hey buddy,’ he stares at me, ‘you taking care of my dog? Eh, buddy?’ he grins with good humour, winking at me.
‘Oh Paco,’ Mum slaps him gently on the arm.
‘Wh…what…’
‘Mum,’ Sarah stands up, tapping the side of a glass with a fork but she does it too hard and the glass smashes. Shards embed into her fingers, slicing the flesh open. Thick streams of red blood drip down but she doesn't stop, just carries on smashing the fork into the glass to get everyone’s attention.
‘I have an announcement,’ she grins, ‘Paco and I are getting married!’
Mum and Dad are on their feet. Mum hugs Sarah as Dad claps Paco manfully on the shoulder.
‘What about Clarence?’ I call out but my voice sounds weak.
‘Hey buddy,’ Paco grins down at me. He’s very tall with huge muscles that bulge out from a tight top, ‘don’t bring it down Howie, you know what I mean?’
‘Yeah Howie,’ Sarah snarls at me, ‘why can’t you be happy?’
‘Fuck,’ I shout in alarm at the sight of her extended huge pregnant stomach.
‘Howie,’ Dad tuts, ‘watch your language in front of your mother.’
‘Sorry Mum,’ I look over but she looks away disdainfully, making a point of ignoring me.
‘We did look for you Howie,’ Dad says as he stabs a serrated commando knife into the joint of beef, ‘we did look for you.’
‘Yeah Howie,’ Sarah adds spitefully. She sticks her tongue out and looks down at the new born baby in her arms. Paco joins her, staring down at the figure swaddled in a blood soaked blanket. Mum and Dad move in closer and together they all stare down, making cooing noises and smiling proudly.
‘Look Howie, this is your nephew,’ Sarah smiles at me. Standing up I move in and look down, my heart hammers in my chest as another wave of fear rips through me. Horror creeps up my spine at the squelchy mess of body parts my sister hugs in the blanket. Torn off limbs, fingers, teeth and bits of brain, grey things and intestines, and on top of it is a big heart. The tubes are snapped and torn off but it beats strong and solid, pumping out thick oozy blood with each bass filled beat.
‘We should eat before it gets cold,’ Dad sighs and moves back to the joint. A big shapeless lump of black fur now rests on the serving platter. Dad turns the platter slowly, the face of Meredith coming into view, ‘tongue Howie?’ He asks, pulling the dogs long pink tongue out.
Whimpering I slump down and cover my face with my hands, rocking back and forward on the chair, tears streaming down my face. It’s so hot in here I can hardly breathe.
‘Howie,’ Mum’s voice calls out. Dropping my hands slowly and everything is back to normal, Dad carving the beef and mum taking a sip of wine. No blood or baby parts, no dog’s head and no Paco.
‘Howie,’ Mum calls again. I look up to see tears rolling down her face,
‘We’re so proud of you Howie,’ her hand reaches across the table, grasping mine tightly, ‘we are both so proud of you.’
‘We are,’ Dad reaches out and grasps my other hand, ‘we never got to say goodbye son.’ He smiles sadly and I can see the love in his eyes. ‘But we’ve been watching you and we are so, so proud of you.’ His voice is hoarse with emotion.
Sobs rack my chest, tears streaming down my face, ‘I’m sorry,’ I whimper, ‘I’m so sorry…’
‘Howie,’ Sarah moves to my side and puts her hand onto my arm.
‘I got everyone killed, Sarah…I’m sorry…’ I can’t speak from crying so hard.
‘Shush,’ Mum urges, ‘it wasn’t your fault.’
‘It was…I should have stayed there…’
‘Son,’ Dad interrupts me, ‘listen to me son, we are so very proud but you have to wake up now.’
‘I don’t understand.’ I glance between them unsure of what he means.
‘Howie you have to wake up,’ Dad urges again, ‘this is a dream Howie…you know that right?’
‘No,’ I whimper, ‘I want to stay here with you.’
‘No Howie,’ Mum whispers softly, ‘you don’t belong here yet, not yet my Howie…my beautiful Howie…my son…’
‘Please Mum, let me stay with you and Dad and Sarah…’
‘We all love you very much Howie and we’re watching over you but you have to wake up now…’ Sarah urges me.
‘They need you Howie. Dave needs you,’ Dad adds, ‘the lads need you…’
‘Lani needs you,’ Mum smiles sweetly, ‘she is very beautiful Howie.’
‘She is,’ I grin through my tears, ‘you would like her.’
‘I do like her!’ Mum laughs softly with fresh tears falling down her face, ‘and one day we will meet but not know, not here…you have work to do Howie…’
‘You have to wake up now son,’ Dad says firmly but his voice is choked as he stifles a sob, ‘you’re not here Howie, you’re in the car park in the tunnel…there’s bodies on top of you…’ he speaks quickly, staring at me with earnest, ‘you will die if you don’t wake up and move…you have to wake up and move…’
‘I…’
‘Get up Howie, you must wake up…’
So hot now, there is no air and I know I have to do what they say but I don’t want to go. I’m safe here, safe and with my family. Why should I go when I can just rest now. The last two weeks have been brutal and I am tired, so very tired.
‘Wake up,’ my father jolts me hard, snapping my senses back but they drift off again as the lure of the long sleep starts pulling me back under. He shoves me again, harder this time and he keeps doing it, shoving and pushing at me, rocking my body with hard jolts as he refuses to let me sleep.
Two
He fights harder than he has ever fought before. Controlling his fear he uses it to drive his arms out, spinning left and right, forward and back. He drops and pirouettes as graceful as a ballet dancer. Leaping higher than an acrobat, the deadly blades swipe across throats, opening arteries to spray hot blood into the packed, dense ranks.
Hands slick with blood but his grip doesn't falter. Every step is placed exactly where it needs to be. The undead are slow and cumbersome and they cannot hope to match him.
Dave was born for this. The very essence of him is designed for this purpose. To kill without hesitancy and to keep killing.
Howie is in there somewhere. Howie is alone and surrounded. Dave knows they want Howie. This swirling motion has worked perfectly and has been expertly executed. Rings of undead moving clockwise against a counter flow moving the opposite direction. Swirls and rings all moving at different speeds and making it near on impossible to gauge a sense of direction of distance.
With each high leap he clocks the location of the entrance to the ramp, instinctively knowing that is the direction Howie has gone. The undead simply move without attacking and Dave ploughs on. Killing faster, driving harder. His face determined and utterly ruthless. A glint of fear in his eye, fear of knowing what will happen if Howie is truly gone. If
that is the case he vows deep within his soul that he will not rest until the last undead has fallen under his knife.
Something changes. A ripple of energy pulses through the undead, changing the way they move. Dave senses it has something to do with Howie. He knows something has happened. The undead retaliate and get faster, the swirls move quicker. The placid faces change into the ferocious expressions of hunger.
He knows that they’re about to attack again. It’s obvious. They’re being pumped full of chemicals, getting primed and ready to go. Dave keeps on, willing them to turn and start.
When they do he grunts in satisfaction. The swirling motion ends suddenly and they turn to attack, lunging forward with wild howls that fill the air. Clarence roars from somewhere, voices scream and orders are shouted, but Dave has one objective in mind and now they’re not swirling he can finally make progress and use the momentum of their attack against them.
He feints left and right, the blade in each hand whipping out to slash as he jigs and dances through them. Dropping low to scoot between legs, using the falling bodies to leap high and gain get closer to Howie.
Slash, swipe, stab, hack and each blow given is a killing blow. Each step taken drives him closer to the ramp. The darkness grows as he gains the entrance. The press of bodies is pumping out an intense, fetid heat that makes his even his brow break out in a light sweat. Down the ramp and into the tunnel enclosure. Dark now, almost too dark to see but Dave doesn't falter. He knows the human form better than he knows himself, he knows through instinct and long years of solid combat and training exactly where to place the knife, and he knows how each strike will cause the opponent to fall or react in a certain way. It is all pre-ordained. There are no surprises for they are slow and dull witted. They lack individual thought and each one follows the same pattern of rushing in and lunging with teeth bared, thereby exposing the soft flesh of the neck.