The Undead_Day 22

by R. R. Haywood

  Nobody questioned the fact a bunch of white men were whipping a young black man into submission. It didn’t help that Keiron couldn’t stand that Danny’s dad was a big black man either. Danny’s mum was white, but she had olive skin and dark hair, so Danny looked black, you look proper black Keiron used to tell him when they were alone. You don’t even look half-caste, just black, like from Africa...like a monkey.

  As Danny got older and transitioned from boy to man he finally started to understand why Keiron had so much hostility towards his dad. Danny’s father was everything Keiron wasn’t, handsome, strong, tall and broad and he looked tough in his army uniform too.

  They were going to let him out on the twenty-first day and exile him then, but Danny became increasingly agitated throughout that day until he suddenly broke down in tears with a rush of pain inside, but without knowing why. Without reason or cause. Danny’s mum thought he was showing remorse at first and suggested to Keiron that maybe Danny was finally seeing how bad he was. Keiron told her she was a stupid cow.

  By the twenty-second day, Danny was calm enough to come out of the small storeroom and was made to stand in the centre of the courtyard inside the castle walls while Keiron told everyone that Danny had to go. Danny didn’t argue. He didn’t really say anything but looked around at the men holding weapons and eyeing him warily.

  ‘I done my best by you, Danny. I really have,’ Kieron said as though full of regret. ‘Everyone here knows I tried with you, son…’

  ‘I’m not your son,’ Danny muttered.

  ‘No you ain’t, no son of mine would ever behave like you done…you got something wrong in your head. Don’t matter now anyway. You gots to go.’

  That was it and at the age of eighteen, Danny Arnold was exiled from the castle and forced to walk across the drawbridge.

  No food. No water. No weapons. Just the clothes he was in. Jeans and a filthy torn blood-stained t-shirt. Old trainers on his feet that had holes in them because Keiron refused to buy him new shoes. He’s fucking off into the army soon, they’ll give him new shoes.

  The castle was only a few miles from his town, so he headed there first, walking through the deserted streets until he saw the first dead body outside the supermarket. The face was all chewed up and it looked rotten, but he recognised the name-badge on the apron and knew it was old Mavis who was always up early to work the bakery section. He’d always liked Mavis. She was nice to him and said he would make a fine soldier. She used to give him sweets when he was a kid and pulled sad faces if she saw the bruises on Danny’s face or arms.

  Danny went home to his semi-detached house and his tiny room at the back. He took the box out from under his bed, opened the lid and spent an hour staring at photographs of his father, smiling to himself at the sight of the big black man that Keiron hated so much.

  It was while staring at the photographs that Danny made the final decision. He already kind of knew what he was going to do the minute he crossed the drawbridge but seeing his father sealed it in his mind.

  Soldiers don’t hide. They fight back. Danny wasn’t a proper soldier yet, but he had thrived in army cadets and the mindset was there. The ideology of it. The essence of what soldiers do. They defend, and attacking is a form of defending.

  Danny took a knife from the kitchen and went out to pick a fight. To do what his father would have done.

  Danny tried to drive Keiron’s filthy work van, but he’d never had any driving lessons, I ain’t paying for him. He’s going in the army soon anyway, they’ll teach him Keiron had said.

  Danny ended up smashing it into the garden wall, then panicked for a second at what Keiron would say before remembering he never had to worry about what Keiron said ever again. So, he drove the van through the rest of the garden wall and then through lots of other garden walls and all in first gear with the engine screaming.

  He only stopped when the engine went bang, and thick smoke poured out but it felt good. It felt really good, so he walked home, went into the big front bedroom, opened Keiron’s wardrobe and pissed in it, chuckling to himself while thrusting his groin forward and swinging left to right.

  One idea leads to another and a few minutes later he was in the kitchen leaving a present in Keiron’s super-sized Sports Direct tea mug.

  Revenge taken, and he set off to scout his town out, but it was deserted. He found another car and drove that, stalling and hopping with gears crunching and much swearing into the next town but that too was deserted. By nightfall he had broken the gearboxes in two cars, crashed another one and searched five towns but hadn’t seen a single person or one of the things, so he camped out in a house and ate tinned food scavenged from kitchen cupboards before falling asleep on the sofa.

  He woke at dawn to a pain in his ankle and the squelchy noises of an old man with bloody stumps for legs slobbering away and screamed out, first in fright, then in horror, then in pain and finally in outrage at being outmanoeuvred by a legless old man using his one remaining tooth on his leg. He tried shaking him off at first, but the old chap clung on so Danny sat up and rained punches into the old man’s head, which had no effect other than helping stab that tooth in a bit more.

  Danny then threw himself off the sofa to roll over the carpet with the legless old man still clinging on with much gnashing and slurping.

  He grabbed his knife from on top of his bag, the bag that he had left right next to the sofa, so he could bug out quickly should enemy movement be detected, and stabbed the old man in the chest. Several times. In fact, Danny wondered how many times he would have to stab the frenzied old man before he actually died and then, in the heat of the moment, he gained enough clarity of mind to stick the blade in the old man’s throat and finish it quickly.

  He then sat back in shock and awe, and fright and horror, of course, to wonder what the hell had just happened. He knew, as everyone did that saw it all happen on the first night, that being bit meant you turned into one, but Danny didn’t immediately think of that due to the revulsion of realising the old man’s tooth was still stuck in his leg. A filthy great thing that Danny stared at in grossed out horror before yanking it out to chuck away.

  It was only then that he realised he wasn’t a zombie, so he waited in silence for another few minutes but still didn’t turn into a zombie and it was at that point that he heard the sound of running feet followed a second later by the thud of someone throwing themselves at the front door, and concluded, being a diligent army cadet, that it was enemy movement and he really should bug out.

  Then the front window imploded from the heavy body sailing head first through it that dropped with a snarling thud and tried to rise fast but got tangled in the drapes and crashed into the big flat screen television and tripped over the legless and now toothless old man’s corpse while Danny ran for the back door, pausing just long enough to call himself a twat for not seeing the now blood-smeared dog flap.

  He ran out into the garden and over the back fence into a street, looking first right and seeing nothing then left and seeing dozens of the things running past the junction at the end.

  ‘Fuck,’ he whispered and set off, knowing he couldn’t hide because the ones in the house behind him were still coming through. He started running but that motion was seen by the infected pouring past the end of the street who twitched direction with a staggering fluidity to give chase.

  They gained on him too and Danny quickly concluded, being a diligent army cadet, that they weren’t slowing down or getting tired, which in turn led him to realise that if he didn’t find a way out soon he would get chomped and bitten way worse than by a one-toothed legless old man.

  He reached the town centre, bursting out from a small side street to see infected people all over the place. Both sides cut off and the big horde coming up behind him. A second to find a way out. A second and no more. A beat of a heart. A blink of an eye and a flash of blue dancing in front of his eyes that made him flinch, but that flash of blue stood out. The colour so vibrant and so dif
ferent to everything else around it and in the sheer chaos of that second he gained focus on the butterfly flapping and dropping on the thermals as it flew off towards a nice big armoured cash-in-transit van ditched in the middle of the road with the back door wide open.

  He ran for it, concluding that it was the only chance of survival. What happened after he got inside he had no plan for, but in such times of life and death situations, one can only factor for the next few seconds.

  The last twenty metres and he gave a surge of power to his legs, gritting his teeth with a glance over his shoulder and a wince at just how close they were. Then he was there and leaping up to stop dead and reach back to heave the door closed as the first infected reached out and lost his fingers from the door slamming shut.

  ‘Gross,’ Danny gasped, seeing the filthy digits drop to the floor of the van that rocked and thudded as the things outside threw themselves at the sides and back.

  Danny looked around, heaving for air, spotting a cupboard section with lots of pigeon holes and a desk with a pop-up monitor fitted in it and banknotes thick on the floor forming a carpet of money. Another door to the front and he spied through the safety glass to see the cabin was closed and secure before opening the hatch to clamber into the driver’s seat and crying out at seeing the keys stuffed in the ignition while the infected threw themselves at the windscreen, doors and sides.

  After several false, lurching, jolting starts he finally got it going in first gear and pulled away. He tried to change to second gear but pushed the stick into fourth and stalled the engine. The infected caught up and once more threw themselves at the windscreen and doors.

  That happened six more times before he finally found second gear and took the van from that town, after crashing into several parked cars, taking a few posts down and going over a roundabout, into the country lanes leading to the next town. He still didn’t have a plan other than getting away and re-grouping, and by re-grouping, he meant hiding for a bit until he could figure something out.

  The problem was that Danny focussed so much on the wing mirror and keeping watch on the horde behind him that he didn’t really pay attention when he reached the new town, and he didn’t pay attention when he flew across the junction where a group of people were stood bickering and where a man with curly dark hair was waving his invisible magic fuckstick as Danny drove the van through the plate glass window of the travel agent’s.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Nick says, watching with everyone else as a young black man runs out from the broken shop front to stop dead before glancing up the street at the big army vehicle and the people stood near it and double takes with an obvious show of surprise.

  ‘Saxon,’ Danny mutters. That’s a Saxon. Then he spots the men and women holding rifles. British Army assault rifles. Combat clothes. Combat boots. The army. Must be. He sets off, running towards them then slowing to march smartly with his arms straight and his chin high, looking from Nick to Cookey then to Blowers.

  ‘Officer?’ he asks politely. They point at Howie who finally lowers his invisible magic fuckstick while wondering why everyone is pointing at him and why a young man with a bruised and swollen face dressed in filthy clothes and carrying a high gloss travel brochure is coming to attention in front of him.

  ‘Cadet Arnold! Permission to draw a rifle,’ Danny says smartly, staring over Howie’s head to a point in the middle distance while saluting with the brochure still in his hands.

  ‘Permission to draw a rifle, Mr Howie, Sir,’ Dave says.

  ‘Sorry sergeant! Permission to…’

  ‘Dave, not sergeant.’

  Danny blinks, glancing once at Dave. ‘Permission to draw a rifle, Mr Howie, Sir!’

  ‘Right,’ Howie says. ‘Um…what’s he looking at?’ he asks, turning to look behind again.

  ‘What happened to his face? Paula asks. ‘What happened to your face?’ she asks Danny.

  Danny glances at her in the same way he did to Dave. Snapping his eyes over to look then staring ahead again at a point over Howie’s head.

  ‘What’s that?’ Marcy asks, peering at the catalogue in Danny’s hand.

  ‘Er…’ Danny stares at it, not realising it was in his hand.

  ‘Can I see?’ Marcy asks, taking it from him. ‘Ta…’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Clarence asks, cocking his head over to the side.

  ‘Danny Arnold…Sir, I know how to use one.’

  ‘One what?’ Howie asks.

  ‘Rifle, Sir. I am proficient in the SA80 assault rifle, Sir.’

  ‘Right,’ Howie says slowly, looking down at the lad’s torn shoes and filthy clothes. Cuts and bruises on his arms. Blood on his ankle and left shoe that looks fresh. His face swollen and as bruised as the lads and not the type of injuries that come from contact with the infected. ‘What happened to you, Danny?’

  Danny falters, hesitating for a second, his lips twitching as though to speak but without sound given then clears his throat to stand taller. ‘I er…I fell, Sir.’

  ‘Sure,’ Howie says. ‘That happens a lot…’ he adds as Danny finally notices the injuries on him and the others. ‘Is it okay if our medic takes a look at you, Danny?’

  ‘They’re coming, Sir,’ Danny says, stiffening his frame again.

  ‘Who are?’ Howie asks.

  ‘The…the things…chasing me, Sir. Loads of them…I tried getting away but I can’t drive and couldn’t get from second gear and…’

  ‘Okay,’ Howie says, cutting in gently. ‘Mo? You feeling anything?’

  ‘Nothing, boss,’ Mo says, shrugging.

  ‘Nick, Where’s Meredith?’ Howie asks, looking around.

  ‘Licking her arse,’ Nick says.

  ‘Where’s Jess?’

  ‘Licking Meredith’s arse.’

  Marcy tuts softly, flicking through the brochure. ‘I’d love a holiday…’

  ‘How many were chasing you?’ Howie asks Danny.

  ‘Er, not sure, Sir…at least a hundred…I can fire a rifle, Sir. I know how to…’

  ‘Slow down,’ Howie says. ‘You’re safe now…’

  ‘Ah it’s fucked innit,’ Mo snaps, twitching his head. ‘They’s comin’…’

  ‘Blowers, get a firing line on that junction he came from.’

  ‘On it, boss’

  ‘Maddox, you’re in Blowers team, Clarence, you grab a GPMG …we’ve got no hand weapons, remember that… Charlie, mount up but stay back and Nick, keep hold of your dog…we’re not fighting them close quarters today. Roy, have a look at Danny here please…’

  ‘I got bit!’ Danny blurts, dancing back a step as he remembers his ankle. ‘Don’t come near me…’

  ‘We’ve all been bloody bit, mate,’ Blowers mutters as everyone walks off, not paying the least bit of attention.

  ‘Can I keep this?’ Marcy asks.

  ‘Pardon?’ Danny asks.

  ‘The brochure, can I keep it? Mind you we can get another one when we’ve finished…’

  ‘Er…yeah sure…’

  ‘Aw that’s sweet,’ she smiles, giving him a wink. ‘Let Roy have a look at you.’

  ‘Marcy. Fall in,’ Blowers calls.

  ‘I’ll stay with Danny,’ Paula says. ‘Okay, young man. I’m Paula. How old are you?’

  ‘I’m er….’ Danny mumbles, watching everyone moving off to form a line facing down the road as a woman on a horse trots past with a huge dog running with them. ‘Eighteen…I’m eighteen, Ma’am.’

  ‘Bless, good manners. You sit down on the back step…are you thirsty? You look hot, let me feel your forehead…’

  ‘I got bit!’ Danny says again, lunging away from her hand.

  ‘I’m immune, it’s fine, yeah you’re very hot. He’s very hot, Roy.’

  ‘It’s a hot day,’ Roy grumbles, stopping in front of Danny. ‘Where were you bit?’

  Danny leans over as Clarence stretches past him to lift a general purpose machine gun from the back of the Saxon and spots the other weapons stacked inside.
‘Is it just you?’ he asks, looking from Paula to Roy to the rest behind them.

  ‘Just us,’ Paula says, pushing a bottle of Lucozade into his hand. ‘Have a drink.

  ‘There’s loads,’ Danny says in alarm. ‘Like more than a hundred.’

  ‘We’ll be fine. Drink…Danny...’ she calls his attention in her Mo voice, gently lifting his chin to make him look at her. ‘Drink. Get some fluids in your body.’

  He nods and lifts the bottle, glugging the sweet contents while Roy grabs and lifts his leg.

  ‘Ankle was it? Ah, I can see…broken the skin…definitely an infected was it?’

  Danny covers his mouth from the belch, nodding quickly. ‘Yes, Sir…didn’t have legs and his eyes…’

  ‘What about his eyes?’ Roy asks.

  ‘You know what he means, Roy,’ Paula says. ‘They were red?’

  ‘Red,’ Danny says. ‘He weren’t human…I stabbed him loads…in the chest. Why haven’t I turned into…’

  ‘HERE THEY COME!’ A shout from the line. Paula and Roy turn to watch as Danny stands up, hearing the drum of feet in the otherwise silent air. A sickening, fear-inducing sound that makes his heart beat faster. A rush inside. An intense worry.

  The first one runs into view. A lean woman with long red hair sprinting fluidly who looks up the street and shows reaction at seeing the group. A visible change. A cocking of her head and she slows from the sprint to a run to a jog to a walk and finally stops to simply stare. Her chest heaving. Her arms at her sides.

  The rest come behind her. Running with fury in their faces. Desperate for the bite to take the host. Wild and crazed and running hard but they too slow as though a message runs through them, as though a ripple effect of a thing within them bringing them down from a sprint to a jog to a walk.

  ‘What the…’ Paula whispers, moving out a step with Roy.

  They look so human. So very human. Heads upright. Arms at their sides. Motion in their forms coming from breathing hard from running so far. The female in front starts walking up the street. Walking like a person would walk. Not ungainly. Not jolting or twitching. Normal and the horde behind do the same. Those still running into the street coming to a gradual stop to join the ones in front walking slowly.