The Undead the Second Week Compilation Edition Days 8-14

by RR Haywood

  The stream turns into a sprinkle as he finishes up, giving a shake before zipping and automatically reaching for the handle to flush.

  Even his own hands look alien. The slender fingers that were only good for taking things apart, have now been responsible for thousands of deaths. They give death time and time again. Taking bodies apart instead of electrical appliances.

  Glancing up he examines his own reflection again. Never given to vanity or conceit, Nick had battled with dyslexia and low self-esteem for much of his life. It wasn’t narcissism that held his gaze at the mirror. It was the realisation that the eyes of a killer stared back at him. The hardness that all the team had was there and clearly evident. A coldness that will never lift. The ability to take life in an instant.

  The team. They were his family now, and far better than the family that he belonged to in his previous life. Loyalty and devotion to one another was a new concept for Nick. He had always had a kind, loving heart. But years of self-degradation, of self-perception that he was something less than average, that he was thick, dense, lacked intelligence, all of those things had imprinted into his psyche, making him prefer the company of solace to that of others.

  Is it wrong to use someone else’s toothbrush? Lifting an eyebrow at himself he ponders the question, then takes the subject matter and compares it against the horrors of pain, suffering, torture and death has witnessed. But the two cannot relate. Death and suffering is one thing but using someone else’s toothbrush? Nah, that’s just gross. A step too far.

  Shuddering with the thought of it, he avoids the bristly tool propped in the glass next to the sink and instead rinses his face. Cleansing the sweat built up from his sleep.

  And it was a long sleep. His limbs feel tired and achy but on the whole he feels good. The sleep has rejuvenated his mind and body alike.

  After his face, Nick washes his armpits then drops his trousers and under-garments to clean his privates. Enjoying the sensation of the cool water on his body.

  ‘I’ve got a great arse,’ he chuckles to himself as he cleans between the cheeks, ‘hey, you got a great butt there,’ he mimics an American accent making himself chuckle again.

  What happened to the boss? The question pops back into his head and stops his joking around immediately. The question hasn’t left, and it won’t leave until the answer is known.

  Clarence will go back to the car park, so that is exactly where Nick needs to be now. Surprisingly for someone so in love with gadgets and gizmos, Nick doesn't wear a watch. The essence of the day however, is not that of early morning. Or is it?

  The heat makes it impossible to tell. The light is always so strong now and the heat is relentless. Speaking of which, Dave’s voice drives into his mind. Drink when you can.

  So he does, bent over at the tap he sucks the cool water into his throat and keeps going until it starts to get uncomfortable. Standing up he belches and wipes the back of his hand across his lips.

  At least the water has gone someway to filling his ever hungry stomach. Always hungry. Always starving. Nick loved food almost as much as he loved taking things apart.

  Grunting at the thought of food, he hurries downstairs clutching his axe and checking the pistol on his belt, then feeling in his pockets for the spare magazine.

  In the kitchen he grins with satisfaction. Miss Pink has a well-stocked kitchen. Tinned meat, tinned fish, beans and tinned fruit.

  He should get going. Really should get going. But Dave always says to drink when you can so that probably extends to food too.

  Definitely extends to food.

  Drawer: opened.

  Tin opener: found.

  Tins: opened.

  Food: removed.

  Mouth: masticating.

  Throat: swallowing.

  Stomach: getting fed.

  Nick: stuffing his face.

  Fish is mixed with fruit which is mixed with spam which is mixed with beans and all of it washed down with warm but fizzy coke from an unopened bottle.

  Sugar and salt levels go through the ceiling. Glucose soars. His body gives a standing ovation to the carbohydrates being taken in. Muscles nod seriously at one another as the protein is absorbed.

  Food. Real food. Really real food that has to be chewed and has flavours and everything! Rummaging while chewing, he gives a muted yell of victory at finding the box of Coco Pops cereal. They get poured into his open mouth and mixed with the fish, beans, fruit and spam to make a meal that at any other time would have most people gagging.

  His stomach fills far quicker than it used to. A direct result of the reduced diet and the infrequent meals has seen the stomach lining reduce in size.

  The feeling of being full is nice. The energy that pours into his body is even nicer. Mind fully awake now as it buzzes from the nutrition absorbed.

  Only two things remain that could make this morning perfect. Well, three things if he was going to be completely true. One, a cigarette. That can be dealt with. He fishes in his pockets for the crumpled and battered packet and he draws one out. Holding the lighter to the end, he inhales to savour the harsh bite of smoke.

  Two, a coffee. But nothing can be done there. The hobs are electric and pretty short of building a fire to heat water he will simply have to go without.

  Three, a beautiful woman to wake up with. Now that is never going to happen. Not now, not tomorrow and probably not ever. The world is suddenly lacking in beautiful women. Lani is beautiful but not in that way. Like a sister and besides, Lani and Howie are meant for each other. That’s pretty obvious.

  Marcy was nice, very beautiful but then she was a dirty fucking zombie. Other than that? Well, they all keep getting killed so probably best not to go there.

  One out of three isn’t bad though. It’s better than none out of three. Fed, watered and now with a cigarette and it’s time to leave this house of pink and make his way into the bright, hot weather waiting outside.

  Exiting the front door he squints into the sky, letting his eyes adjust to the glare. Out the front garden and into the street, staring down the road and trying to remember which way he came in. He was killing zombies, then he ran for a bit before finding this house.

  Shit, must have gone some distance. Can’t even see the smoke from the fires in the High Street, unless they’ve gone out. Who would put them out?

  Wondering if any of these houses have gas hobs to heat water and make coffee with, he starts strolling down the street. Biting his bottom lip as he tries to resist the temptation to start checking and keep going.

  Why aren’t I worried for the boss? Because he’s okay, that’s why. How does he know this? How can he possibly know this? A connection, a feeling, something intangible and fleeting that cannot be grasped. Mr Howie is okay. Dave will be with him.

  What about everyone else? Blowers and Cookey? Did they get out? No, they were at the door to the stairwell. Lani? She went after Mr Howie. Meredith? No idea but that dog is like Dave and indestructible.

  The connection is there with all of them. He worries because they are separated, but deep down, he knows that they’re ok. It doesn't make sense.

  But it is what it is so Nick walks on, still resisting the temptation to find a gas hob and make coffee.

  At the end of the road he pauses, looking first left then right as he still tries to figure out which way he came in. Turning round, he considers the possibility that he came in from the other end. Shit, can’t even remember if the house was on the left or right when I got here.

  That’s bad. And clearly down to a lack of coffee. Should have a coffee. Shrugging he walks on, choosing to go left simply because he is closer to that side.

  The problem with these places is that they all look the same. All the houses are made from brick, with slate roofs and small front gardens. Nick used to look at magazines and watch programmes of the houses in America, at how big they were and made from wood too. All of them seemed huge with massive gardens and each one was unique.

  Axe ove
r one shoulder, he pauses to light another cigarette before glancing up to look around at the houses. Less signs of the devastation here. Some doors smashed in and windows broken, some of the cars have been dented or set on fire but mostly the area looks to have escaped the worse of the carnage.

  He wonders if there are survivors cooped up inside the intact secure houses. Maybe watching him now and wondering who he is, and why their town centre has been set on fire, and who was doing all that shooting last night. Mind you, can’t even see the smoke from the town centre from here.

  They could have just slept through it all without any idea that such a battle was taking place just a short distance away.

  No way, they must have heard the explosion Paula set off before they got back with the Saxon. Judging from the destruction caused, they must have been big bangs. Cocking his head to one side he thinks that he will have to ask Dave to show him how those bombs are made and anything else like that.

  What was that? Focussing, he inhales purposefully, detecting the scent of smoke in the air. Not cigarette smoke from the one in his hand but wood smoke mixed with chemicals. Staring up into the sky he rotates fully round, catching sight of a slightly darker area in the distance. Like a dirty mist hanging in the air.

  With a direction to follow he sets off, thinking how far away he is and again amazed at the distance they got away last night. He comes to the end of the residential area and moves into the next one. More houses, more front gardens, more low brick walls and more cars.

  All these lives just poodling along doing whatever normal people do. Going to work and coming home, watching television and eating dinner before going to bed and doing the same again. Family issues, falling out with people over comments made on Facebook. Texting, emailing, computer games and all the time sitting down and waiting to die.

  Years must go by without the routine ever changing. The only excitement is the annual holiday to somewhere hot and sunny just to come home and return to the same lifestyle that just goes on and on. Buy food, eat food. Go shopping. Buy clothes. Text. Email. Facebook. Watch movies, go to work, go to sleep and get up again. Own your house, don’t rent. Get a mortgage, buy a car oh and don’t forget to exercise and don’t smoke, and don’t drink and don’t eat fatty foods or even look at MacDonald’s.

  The lessons of life drummed into society, told how to live, how to think, how to buy and how to work. And now? It’s all gone.

  His keen mind works fast, processing thoughts into a seamless flow that swims through his conscious. The last two weeks have been a living hell. Watching people die every day, watching mates die. Fighting and fighting. Running away or chasing after the undead. But somewhere deep inside his heart it feels better than it was.

  He belongs to something that is important. He enjoys being a part of it. Not an observer stood on the outside, looking through the window being unable to join because he can’t read or write, wishing he could join that group or be a part of that team. Wishing he didn’t have the issues he had.

  But now none of that matters. He adores Howie, as with every member of the team he deeply respects the man and knows there is something incredibly special about him. Same with Dave, Clarence, all of them. Even Blowers and Cookey are closer to him now than any of his own family were before this happened.

  To put your life in someone else’s hands, to trust them implicitly with every facet of your existence, knowing that if they fail not only will you die, but many others will too. Knowing they trust you just as much, and to handle that responsibility and step up to the plate. That means something.

  Normal life frightened Nick. The future was uncertain. How he could find a decent job that didn’t just involve carrying or moving things, or cooking fast food. Shit, even cooking fast food was a problem as it meant reading the computer screen to see the orders. He could read but when pressure was applied or people were watching he felt an overwhelming sense of freezing, of drying up and being unable to put the letters together. The same with writing. Alone and without anyone watching he could put pen to paper and form words, it was slow and bloody hard work but it could be done. As soon as anyone tried to watch him do it he lost the ability.

  Rachel, the special needs teacher always told him it didn’t matter. That he was deeply intelligent and not everyone has the same skills in life. The small amount of respect he has for himself comes from Rachel. She told him that brains are wired up differently, some people are brilliant with maths and numbers, others can play instruments and some can read many languages and write beautiful words. What Nick could do with taking things apart and understanding how they worked was something incredibly special, and a skill many people simply didn’t have.

  Leaving school, and leaving the support Rachel gave him, was one of the hardest periods of Nick’s life. That structure was gone, and with it the constant coaching and mentoring that Rachel offered.

  It was meaningless. His family didn’t take any interest in what he did, until something broke and then they got him to fix it. But that was never done with any form of compliment or reward, not even an acknowledgment that he could take the thing apart and work out why it wasn’t working.

  He’d spend hours on the computer, mindlessly playing games or wandering the streets. Drinking cans of lager, getting into scraps and just dossing. It wasn’t a lack of ambition or motivation that held him back. It was a lack of knowledge and how to find a way out.

  Now though, he was dressed in army gear carrying a fucking big axe with an army pistol strapped to his belt, walking through the apocalypse whilst trying to find his ragtag bunch of mates who have proven to be possibly the hardest fighting force left in the country.

  That ragtag bunch of misfits; the supermarket manager leading the autistic Special Forces soldier, the Thai girl who worked in a nightclub, the giant ex-paratrooper, the two lads always taking the piss and of course the dog. Together they have killed hundreds of thousands of those things.

  Many have died, but many lived because of what they did, because of the action they took and making a stand against the undead.

  Wishing Rachel could see him now, of how far he had come and how integral he was to the team. Of how proud she would be. That brings a small, sad smile to his face. Thoughts of his family don’t enter his mind. If they saw him now they’d just ask where the food was, where the fort was, where’s the booze? No, it was Rachel that would give him that huge grin and tell him how proud she was.

  She talked about the kickboxing she did out of work, so maybe she survived? Maybe she is leading another small group somewhere, killing zombies while yelling at small children for running in the corridors.

  This new world needs more Rachel’s. It doesn't need greedy spiteful selfish idiots who only want to take, it needs those that work and work hard.

  ‘Fuck,’ snapping to attention he realises how far he has walked, drifting through street after street without registering the direction.

  Shaking his head he walks on, spotting the main road ahead and the dirty smoke pluming into the air further on.

  Maybe he should tell the others about the pink bedroom, that would get a laugh, and a few solid days of piss-taking too.

  ‘Shit, it bloody hurts,’ Rapist moans again at the pain in his bitten cheek.

  Rolling his eyes, the other man stares at the road ahead. Driving now for several hours and all he has had to listen to is him, yacking on about how much his face hurts, and how that fucker bit him. Even the two boys fell asleep a couple of hours ago and haven’t moaned as much as him.

  It does look bad though, with blood seeping through the now dirty rag pressed to his face. The Doc will be pissed off that they’ve been so long but what can you do. It didn’t make sense that he sent them so far north to work the towns further away before doing these. Why not do the closest towns first and work out? But the Doc said everything was for a reason.

  ‘I need a wee,’ one of the little boys pipes up in a scared voice.

  ‘Hold it,’ the rapist
snaps.

  ‘Can’t,’ Todd whines.

  ‘Just shut up and hold it!’

  ‘Can’t,’ Todd squirms, the pressure on his small bladder too much to take.

  ‘We’ll pull over,’ the man driving sighs.

  ‘No, he can bloody hold it,’ the rapist shouts then curses from the angry movement flaring the pain in his cheek, ‘I need some fucking painkillers…’

  ‘And you think the Doc will give you some if we turn up with two kids covered in piss? If the boy has to go then he has to go.’

  ‘Well he can fucking piss out the window then, come here…’

  ‘NO!’ Todd squirms away from the bleeding man reaching out to grab him.

  ‘Hang on,’ the driver interjects, ‘he ain’t pissing out the window, just wait I’ll pull up. ‘Ere, do you need to go?’ He glances down at Billy. Shaking his head Billy looks up at the man. Even the young boy can detect the differing energy between the two men. The bleeding man who hurt Sam is nasty and keeps shouting, the man driving isn’t that bad. He’s still a bad man but just not as bad as the bleeding man.

  ‘Sure? Cos we ain’t stopping again.’

  ‘No thank you,’ Billy replies, remembering his manners.

  ‘Okay,’ the driver shrugs as he brings the speed down, naturally drifting over to the side of the road from long habits of driving. ‘Go with him,’ he says to the rapist.

  ‘Really? You think?’ Rapist sneers, ‘fucking well done Einstein…would never have figured that out on my own.’

  ‘Alright,’ the driver placates.

  ‘Hurry up,’ rapist snaps, pushing the door open he clambers down and stretches before swearing again, as even that movement causes pain in his cheek. Todd shuffles over and drops down and shuffles over to the edge of the pavement.

  ‘Where you going?’ Rapist demands.

  ‘For a wee wee,’ Todd replies meekly.

  ‘Do it then,’ rapist shouts.