The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  The darkness, the heat, the exhaustion all working in conspiracy to lull her senses into a relaxed state. Her mind fooling her into believing this little dark patch right here, against the wall is safe. Quiet now too. No sounds of fighting, just the distant sound of voices shouting and the far off crackle of fire burning.

  With one hand buried in Meredith’s hair she closes her eyes and drifts off, her last conscious image sees Howie safe and well, holding a cold bottle of water out for her.

  Four

  ‘Where did he go?’ Blowers shouts amidst the carnage of the battle.

  ‘Dunno,’ Cookey yells back as he swings out with his axe to take another one down, quickly twisting the shaft in his hands as he takes the backswing and cleaves another skull open.

  ‘Why aren’t they attacking?’

  ‘Dunno that either,’ Cookey replies, hacking at a female with half her face missing.

  ‘Can you see him?’ Blowers asks after a pause of glancing between the swirling ranks, ‘he went that way,’ he motions with his head as Cookey glances round, nods and starts attacking in the direction indicated.

  The two lads hack a path through the rotating circles of undead, scoring kill after kill but for every one taken down there are scores more. The constant motion confuses them. The ranks are too dense to see anything else or to gain an idea of direction and again, within seconds, they’ve lost the route they thought they were taking.

  ‘BOSS?’ Cookey yells out, ‘MR HOWIE? DAVE? CLARENCE?’

  ‘LADS?’ Clarence’s deep voice floats from somewhere but again the actual where is lost in the confusion and chaos surrounding them.

  ‘This is like fucking fog,’ Blowers curses and takes a vicious swing, as though to chop them away and create space to see, but again they fill the gap and keep moving round and round.

  ‘What do we do?’ Cookey shouts as he slams the end of his axe shaft into the nose of a big male zombie with a bald head.

  ‘What you asking me for?’

  ‘You’re in charge aren’t you?’ Cookey shouts back.

  ‘Me? Fuck off!’

  ‘You are, Mr Howie said you were like in charge…so do something.’

  ‘Er…fuck it…we’ll pick a direction and just keep going.’

  ‘I thought that’s what we were doing,’ Cookey exclaims.

  ‘This way,’ Blowers roars and starts attacking with fresh vigour, pausing to let Cookey fall in at his side. Always side by side. Blowers on the left and Cookey on the right. They never changed and it was instinct to fight this way. When Blowers lunged hard left, Cookey kept an eye on the front. When Cookey swept and hacked towards his right, Blowers would take a step forward to offer a degree of protection.

  Blowers had a habit of just slightly over-extending with some of his swings, something that Cookey recognised and covered for. Blowers also reverted to his boxing training and several times had started punching out when they were cornered. Cookey knew he did through instinct and he would shout and step in front for fear of his friend cutting his knuckles open.

  For his part, Blowers watched Cookey like a hawk. Cookey was jovial and funny and brought light to their group in the darkest of times. But Cookey also wore his heart on his sleeve and it reflected in the way he fought. If he was happy and buoyant, the lad would swipe and hack with ruthless precision. When Cookey was upset, he became a tiny bit uncontrolled, taking wilder swings and exposing himself to greater risks. It was only by fighting alongside him for so many days that Blowers had picked up on this, and now with Mr Howie gone, Cookey was starting to show his anger and fear.

  ‘Shit,’ Blowers shouts, picking up on the energy change rippling through the undead. The faces becoming warped and contorted with rage. They fight harder, hacking side by side to forge a path through the ranks. Not knowing which direction they’re going but knowing that staying in the middle is no longer an option.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear oh dear,’ Cookey replies, desperately trying to keep the fear from his voice. Mr Howie is gone, sucked into the darkness to be taken away. Right now there isn’t time to think, just to fight and get away before they turn and start…

  ‘NOW,’ Blowers screams as area around them erupts into a frenzy of savage beasts lunging to take wild swipes and bites at the lads. Pressed in on all sides they go back to back, each one of them swinging out left and right. Blowers still trying to forge a path through the ranks as Cookey keeps back stepping.

  ‘Don’t fucking push me,’ Blowers seethes from the constant pushing of Cookey walking into him.

  ‘Well fucking hurry up then.’

  ‘I’m fucking trying.’

  ‘Try harder fuckhead.’

  ‘Cookey you twat, that big fucker almost got me.’

  ‘I had him!’

  ‘Fucking hell you are slow as shit.’

  ‘Get fucked Blowers, stop looking at their arses and try killin’ them instead.’

  ‘Where the fuck is everyone?’ Blowers shouts after a few seconds of frantic fighting.

  ‘No idea,’ Cookey grunts, ‘just keep going.’

  The axe shafts become slick with blood, the two lads gripping with tight fists. The edges of the axe blades start to dull, the constant hacks and swipes through thick cartilage and bone taking their toll on the weapons. They still do deadly work but each strike needs more force to bludgeon and chop. The relentless action drains energy, sapping strength from arms, burning coursing through shoulders. Sweat drips into eyes causing blurred vision. Legs stumble and feet trip over the downed corpses. The banter is gone, just loud grunts expelled as they keep hacking and cleaving into the never ending flow of lunging zombie faces coming in harder and harder.

  Then they’re free, bursting from the side into open space. The force of the ejection sends Blowers staggering several steps and only just managing to right himself. Cookey, feeling the sudden loss of Blowers behind him doesn't fare so well and goes down onto his arse. The lad never misses a beat and doesn't flinch but keeps hacking away.

  Several come after him, lunging in at seeing him down. Blowers is there in an instant, charging in to buy his friend the few seconds he needs to get up. Cookey springs to his feet and goes back in, fury and anger pulsing through his body.

  Dave screams out for headlights, his voice carried loud and clear from the entrance ramp. Seconds go by before the powerful headlights of the Saxon are on, casting fractured illumination through the ranks.

  A split second later the GPMG starts up. Both of the lads yelping as they dive away from the crowd, cursing whoever is firing for not shouting a warning.

  The familiar noise of the engine bursts into the air, filling the roof space of the car park with sound.

  ‘Who the fuck is that?’ Blowers shouts.

  ‘Why do you keep asking me stupid questions?’ Cookey whines shaking his head, ‘how the fuck do I know who it is?’

  The Saxon starts pulling away, the GPMG firing into the dense central section of the crowd to create a path. The two lads stare at each other, both of them sensing they are about to be left alone on the roof.

  A piercing scream breaks the air behind them. The lads spin round to spot a thick wave of zombies pouring through the door to the stairwell. The few youths left on position are overwhelmed, several taken down to be bitten and savaged, screaming with pain and horror.

  Within a second they are full on sprinting, both of them reacting at the same instant. The vehicle might be pulling out, it might be forging a path to escape this utter terror, but the sight of children being taken down to be ripped apart causes an instinctive reaction.

  Axes gripped and held high, legs pumping and faces fixed with determination. They roar, side by side as they plough into the undead. Using momentum and violent swings they force the undead back, kicking, punching, lashing out left and right.

  More come through the door, Blowers glances round catching a glimpse of the Saxon pulling away with a line of survivors behind it fighting out. If these undead get through the
stairs door, they’ll be attacking the rear of that line. Within that line Blowers spots the huge form of Clarence swinging his double bladed axe. They lock eyes for a split second, Blowers nods.

  ‘THE FORT,’ Clarence bellows. Blowers nods again. If the Saxon stops they’ll lose the momentum and get bogged in. If Blowers and Cookey try to run for them, this lot from the stairs will surge in.

  No choice, this line has to be held. Turning back he shoulders in next to Cookey and joins him at the wooden double doors. They fight on, slowly pushing through until they gain the top of the wide concrete stairs, using the height advantage to hack down into the horde coming up.

  The bodies mount and again create a natural obstacle for those undead still trying to clamber up the stairs. The lads take the opportunity and drop down to the next landing, taking ground and fighting on, dropping more bodies to fall and encumber those coming up.

  The stairwell is darker, and as with the vehicle tunnel, the hot, foul air is trapped, building the heat to a staggering temperature. Losing valuable fluids with every second they fight and swing, step and swing, trip and curse with increasingly dry mouths. Unable to spit or speak, their throats burn and their eyes sting. Heads pound with pain as the dehydration builds. The ferocious action is relentless but they don’t falter. They have the upper hand and they press that advantage home. Both of them ignoring the intense discomfort to wreak havoc and drive the undead back down the stairs.

  The concrete walls, the concrete steps, the handrails all drip with blood, gore and bits of body. Blowers feels the dampness of hot blood on his trousers, Cookey scowls as his top clings to his frame from sweat and fluids.

  Down they go, reaching the next landing, winning their small war against the undead. Snarling with fury they hack and kill, bursting skulls apart and kicking out to ram the soles of their boots into noses.

  Past the doors to the next level, with no idea that Lani and Meredith rest across the expanse. Believing everyone else has gone with the Saxon they press on, determined to reach the bottom. Fuck it, there might be another thousand of them waiting and they’ll probably end up just fighting back up to the top but they can do it. The two of them can take these stairs. Their own private battle. The two lads acting as one against the undead. Both of them refusing to let the utter exhaustion slow them down and sheer stubborn pride pushes them on.

  The last flight and the darkest part with no ambient light coming in. Sordid and dirty, the gritty reality of the situation starts to hit them. What happens when they reach the bottom? How the fuck will they get away? Neither Blowers nor Cookey blame Clarence for leaving. The children had to be saved and they know the chances of walking away from something like this are very slim.

  As a unit, together with the others they have survived incredible odds but that was as part of something special with Mr Howie and Dave. When Mr Howie went into that zone nothing could stop him, they’d all seen it time and again. But Mr Howie isn’t here, Dave and Clarence aren’t here. Or Nick or Lani or Meredith with her strong jaws.

  Just the two of them, fighting with an ever growing sensation that all is not well. The team have fractured and splintered and for the first time, they both genuinely feel this really might be it.

  The last few steps down and a sliver of light comes through the dirty glass panes of the double doors leading out onto the street. They cut the last few down and stagger those final few steps to the doors. Both of them staring with hard eyes, waiting for the next surge to come powering through.

  ‘I ain’t going back up,’ Blowers growls, ‘fuck that mate.’

  ‘Kay,’ Cookey mutters, too exhausted to argue or even reply with anything funny.

  ‘We’re going out,’ Blowers adds.

  ‘Kay.’

  ‘Fuck ‘em.’

  ‘Kay,’ Cookey tries to spit but his mouth is too dry. He coughs to clear his throat but it is too dry, even swallowing causes pain now. No longer sweating either, his body has ceased to waste fluids and instead diverts them to the essential internal organs. With no ability to sweat, his body will soon become over heated. Heat-stroke and exposure are setting in and any further dehydration will lead to hallucinations. The thought of doing anything is beyond him, so instead he’ll follow Blowers because Blowers is his mate and that means something.

  It means the exhaustion and the dehydration can go fuck themselves. The pounding headache and can kiss his arse. The thirst can piss off and annoy someone else. He nods, a grim act with a pursed mouth and a brow set. He won’t fail now. Not yet. Maybe in a few minutes when they charge outside and hit the enormous horde waiting for them. Maybe when his arms can no longer swing and his legs can no longer kick, maybe when he falters and goes down and they come in for the bite, maybe then he will fail.

  But not now. Now he readjusts his grip on his axe and looks over at Blowers. Blowers stares back at his friend for a second. He feels exactly the same way, his own body mirroring that of Cookey and no longer sweating.

  They turn to face the doors, lips curling up into snarls. They could stay here and wait it out, maybe go back up and try to find some fluids. There are several options that do not involve charging out of these doors into certain death, but that is not the way this team work, and that is not the way Mr Howie led them to be.

  The undead are out there. The dirty, fetid, diseased undead. And not too far away there will be an old British Army armoured personnel carrier travelling slowly back to the fort, with a trail of desperate children running behind it. So for that reason, they will go out and create merry hell, they will scream and roar and bring the attention onto them. That is the team’s way and that is what Mr Howie would do.

  ‘Ready Cookey.’

  ‘Yes Mr fucktard,’ Cookey replies.

  ‘HAVE IT,’ Blowers screams, launching himself at the doors with a violent yell. His axe hits the doors first, then his body which slams into the hard wood and bounces back off to fall into heap on the bloodied and mangled corpses.

  ‘It open inwards you fucking idiot,’ Cookey bursts out laughing, hard guffaws that bring him to his knees at the sight of a demented Blowers screaming blue murder, only to bounce off and fall flat on his arse. ‘It…fucking hell….you fucking dick…’ Cookey gasps for breath, bent double as the laughs bursting from his throat cause him physical pain, ‘opens inwards…oh fucking hell….that’s the best thing ever…’

  ‘Fuck off twat,’ Blowers slowly gets to his feet, retrieving his fallen axe. He stares at Cookey for a second, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth at the sight of his mate bent double crying with laughter, and he starts to chuckle at himself. Feeling a slight burn in his face at the heroic image of bouncing off the doors.

  ‘Have it…’ Cookey repeats his final words through ragged breaths, ‘he said have it…oh it’s too much….I fucking wish everyone else was here…’

  The laughter is as infectious as the virus carried by the undead, and within seconds Blowers is exhibiting symptoms, tears streaming down his face as the nervous energy is expended. Both of them leaning against the wall laughing harder and harder, and the more they go the more they set each other off.

  Nearing hysteria with a few genuine tears mixed into the ones caused by laughing, they start to bring themselves back down. A deep sadness pervading their souls as they take stock of the awful situation. With no idea where any of the others are and facing a huge horde outside the doors the few minutes of laughing drop them lower than before.

  ‘Why haven’t they come through?’ Cookey asks. If the doors open inwards the horde could have come in with ease. Blowers grabs one of the handles and tugs it open, a stupid move considering what could be on the other side, but exhaustion clouds their normally alert minds.

  ‘Fuck,’ Blowers mutters staring at the empty scene. Cookey steps through, joining his friend to stare out at the street. The flames of the burning High Street flicker and dance off the sides of the car park. Bodies litter the ground everywhere, crushed and shot to bits,
but other than the odd crawler, pathetically dragging itself on bloodied stumps trailing long black glistening innards, there are no undead, no zombies, no walkers.

  ‘Where have…’

  ‘Dunno,’ Cookey cuts him off, his axe still gripped, raised and ready to fight. Slowly he lowers his arms and lets the axe hang at his side, ‘you must have scared ‘em off mate.’

  Blowers turns slowly to stare at Cookey, too exhausted to ask and knowing he doesn't need to.

  ‘That commando entry there…’ Cookey turns to look at him, ‘they knew they were outmatched.’

  ‘Or they fucked off from sheer embarrassment more likely,’ Blowers snorts.

  ‘You think they took Mr Howie with them?’

  ‘Fuck knows,’ Blowers shrugs, ‘don’t seem right though.’

  ‘What doesn't?’

  ‘Mr Howie going like that, it’s…well it’s fucked up…like…’ he shrugs again, his mind foggy and feeling numb.

  Cookey pauses then takes the thought process up, ‘Dave went after him, I saw him.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Cookey nods, ‘Dave won’t let anything happen to him, he’d kill the lot with his bare hands…’

  ‘So where are they then? And where the fuck are the zombies?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Cookey sighs, ‘or anyone else. Clarence was behind the Saxon, what about Lani and Nick? Did you see the dog?’

  ‘Maddox was with Clarence, I’m sure I saw him,’ Blowers replies staring round and settling on the closest crawler trying unsuccessfully to clamber over a pile of bodies, ‘why doesn't it just go round?’ Blowers asks.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That thing,’ he nods at the crawler, ‘he’s trying to go over when he could just go round.’

  ‘Oh,’ Cookey turns to watch, ‘yeah…stupid fucker, mind you…they ain't all that dumb. Lani went flying off when Mr Howie got pulled away, I thought Nick was with Clarence tonight, he must have got out with the Saxon.’

  ‘Yeah, hope so,’ Blowers nods, ‘Lani must be with Dave and the boss then.’