The Undead Day Sixteen

by RR Haywood

  The Undead

  Day Sixteen

  RR Haywood

  Copyright © R. R. Haywood 2014

  R. R. Haywood asserts his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved.

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events, unless those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or undead), is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Design, Cover and Illustration by Eduardo Garay.

  Edited by Rachael Brimstone.

  The story so far

  A new landscape was formed after the storm, and with it the promise of a new beginning.

  One race to dominate this land. One race to survive.

  Words were uttered beneath the Saxon while Howie fought the undead.

  Words that brought a whole new pressure.

  To be relentless and unceasing. To charge forward and never give up. To do what it takes to survive.

  That pressure was building and it became too much. Howie faltered, losing his mind as they ran through the fog and sought the doctors so desperately needed at the fort.

  The final act was a simple one. A stubborn man spoke through an intercom at the munitions factory and his words sparked such a reaction in Howie that he fell apart in front of those who love him the most.

  The Undead continues…

  One

  Day Fifteen.

  It has been a wholly mixed day and my emotions are spent to almost nervous exhaustion. I must reflect and learn, for it is only by true self-reflection that we advance as a species. I went to the house seeking the first person on the list. He, and his family, were infected and seemingly trapped in an upstairs room. They surprised me, and after a desperate fumble I killed them with the assault rifle.

  For quite some time after the massacre, I was downright terrified and waves of adrenaline pulsed through me. I sat in the darkness, waiting for them to subside as I dwelled upon how close to death I had been. However, I had survived and I had walked away. Just.

  The morning after, (this morning), we set off again. Jess, my trustworthy steed, and I used country lanes for the first few miles but the incessant clip clop of her hooves on the solid ground soon started to niggle. There-after we used footpaths, verges and fields which, although slower and harder going, were far more pleasurable. The storm had brought down many a tree which also had to be negotiated.

  The day passed slowly. Only when we made camp for the evening, with final rays of the sun dropping below the horizon, did the realities of my interaction with the Infected set in.

  The first one on the list was infected. He shouldn’t have been infected.

  He was supposed to be immune.

  Something has gone wrong.

  NB

  Two

  I’m in a dark room and I’m alone. I know I’m alone, but something is coming after me so I have to run except I don’t know which way to go. Panic builds instantly as fear pulses and grips my body. I try crying out but no words will sound from my mouth. It’s light now but grimy and grey. I’m in a street so ruined and destroyed it looks like something from the Second World War. An old park lies in a square behind rusted railings. The slide has fallen down into a pile of rubble, rusted swing chains nestle afifteenmongst the yellowing grass. The sky is streaked blood red and the clouds look heavy and threatening. I don’t know where I am or why I’m here. I don’t like this place. I’m scared, more scared than ever before.

  I can’t find my axe, it isn’t here. Dave isn’t here. Nobody is here but something is coming after me. I can’t see it, but I know it is there. I start to walk away but it’s not fast enough so I start jogging, then running, then sprinting as fast as I can but I don’t really get anywhere. I feel like I’m running on ice, there’s no traction underfoot and that panic builds stronger with every passing second. I’m going to die here, alone and forgotten in this filthy ruined place.

  Tears prick my eyes, blurring my vision, and my throat burns from the silent screams. Trying to look behind, I can see dark shadows flitting between the ruined walls and collapsed roofs of the buildings all around me. Dark shapes, shadows that are evil with intent. A dry laugh echoes round. It mocks but turns into a phlegmy cough that hacks up putrid bile from the throat. Still I run, and still I don’t make any progress. Still the fear builds, and still they are coming closer and still I know I will die here. A certainty. Fact. Stop running then, stop running and face your death with bravery and courage. Stand still, tall and proud and look them in the eye as they come for you.

  I try. Oh god, I try but I don’t feel tall and proud and I can’t find their eyes. I need to brave like Dave. I need to be strong like Clarence. I need to laugh at them like Cookey. I need Lani’s temper and fierce stubbornness. I need Meredith’s speed and agility. I need all of them to survive. I can’t do this on my own.

  They’re coming now, closer and closer. Just dark shapes which loom bigger and higher as they encroach towards me. On all sides they surround me and make me feel small, insignificant, unworthy of life. I close my eyes and whimper in prayer.

  Something solid slams into me, ripping me off my feet as they close in for the kill. Being carried roughly along, I open my eyes to see that the dark shadows are now Undead, but far worse than the undead I have come to know. These are barely human, with flesh that drips like acid burns from their bones. Blood seeps to weep from a thousand cuts, eyes deep and hollow but with yellow razor teeth filed into points and hands clawed the same. They give chase but whoever carries me is faster than they for soon they give up and melt back into the ruins of the houses from whence they came.

  I can’t see who it is but they run, vaulting rubble and obstacles with ease until we’re far from where I was trapped. I’m carried into a doorway of a church and inside is lit with infinite candles that burn and flicker to fill the space with golden light.

  The floor is swept clean, it’s completely free from dust and the air smells sweet now, gone is the musty dampness of decay. This church represents the warmth of life and living.

  I’m put down onto my feet and stagger back to face the man who carried me. As Paco stands back he grins, showing those perfect white teeth framed in the tanned face of the movie idol. He looks good, far better than when I watched him die. Grinning sheepishly, he rolls his shoulders as though easing the strain of the burden from carrying me. He’s breathing hard and a light film of sweat coats his face. One muscled arm flexes in front of his face as he uses his forearm to wipe the sweat away.

  ‘Is he okay?’ I spin at the sound of the voice and feel a surge of disappointment when I realise it isn’t Sarah but a young woman, blonde haired and slim. She looks radiant, beautiful and happy despite the look of concern on her face at the peril I was in.

  ‘Say, you got away just in time,’ Paco says to me, his deep American drawl so distinctive and clear.

  ‘You shaved your beard off,’ I mutter and feel instantly stupid at the first comment from my mouth.

  ‘He wanted to keep it,’ the young woman says with a wry smile, ‘he thought it made him look enigmatic and mysterious. I thought he just looked old and dirty,’ she rolls her eyes but casts a look of warmth at Paco.

  ‘Nice place,’ I nod at the pleasant surroundings. It’s more than nice; I can feel the safety
of this place. The high vaulted beams sweep majestically up into the apex of the roof. Stained glass windows reflect the candle light. It feels entirely normal to be here. Nothing strange about it at all.

  ‘Here,’ I turn again to see the young woman holding a drink out which I take with grateful hands. Cool, clear water gushes into my parched mouth, easing the soreness of my throat.

  ‘Drink up,’ she smiles softly, ‘Paco, can you get some more water please.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ he mock salutes and walks fluidly through a door at the rear of the pulpit. ‘How’s my dog?’ He calls out.

  ‘Meredith?’ I ask as he reappears holding another cup of water for me.

  ‘Meredith?’ He asks with a puzzled glance at the woman as he passes me the second cup.

  ‘The dog,’ I nod before draining the cup, ‘Meredith.’

  ‘Say, I think we’re all a bit mixed up here,’ he scratches his chin thoughtfully, ‘you called the dog Meredith?’

  ‘Er, yeah…isn’t that her name? You were calling it out during the fight when er…like…’ Does he know he’s dead? It feels rude to mention it.

  ‘You were what?’ The girl laughs, ‘that’s so sweet.’ She rests her hand on his muscled forearm.

  ‘Oh, Paco,’ she smiles sweetly but I can tell there is more to their story than I know. They share a look so filled with emotion and pain that I have to turn my head away.

  ‘I never knew the dog’s name,’ he says to me quietly after a long pause.

  ‘Um…’ nodding I try and look like I know what he’s talking about, ‘so, er…who is Meredith then?’ I ask lightly over the rim of the cup and watch confused as the girl bursts out laughing. The charged atmosphere is broken and Paco shakes his head while rolling his eyes in a wholly amiable gesture.

  ‘See this broad,’ he thumbs in the direction of the girl next to him, ‘this is Meredith.’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you, Mr Howie,’ she says with exceptional politeness and even drops me a little curtsy, ‘heard lots about you.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I keep nodding as it seems the only thing to do, ‘so what’s the dog’s name then?’

  ‘Who knows,’ he shrugs, ‘but…well,’ he drops his gaze for a second to look sideways at Meredith, ‘maybe Meredith is a good name to keep for her?’

  ‘She likes it,’ I add with my own shrug. I look about at the surroundings, suddenly aware that I have no idea where I am.

  ‘Where am I?’ I ask, somewhat bluntly.

  ‘You’re in a chapel.’

  ‘Church,’ Meredith corrects Paco, ‘it’s not a chapel and it’s not ass, it’s arse…we keep going through this.’

  ‘Whatever, talk to the hand,’ he holds one up to wave in her direction, which she promptly bats away with a laugh.

  ‘How do you know each other?’ The connection between them is strong, pouring from them in buckets.

  ‘Paco saved me,’ she replies, the laughter easing off as she drops into a serious voice, ‘some men took me from my family, one raped me while the other one laughed. Paco killed them both…’

  ‘No,’ he interrupts gently, ‘I killed one, the dog killed the other.’

  ‘Either way,’ she tilts her head back, ‘…I took my own life,’ she adds sadly and I watch as Paco moves closer to take hold of her hand gently within his. ‘Paco stayed with me all night but,’ she pauses, ‘but I was shocked and…well, I just couldn’t handle what had happened…but,’ she smiles gently, ‘mister hero here decided to take all of my sins for his own, he gave me a proper burial and’ she adds, ‘it appears he may have just redeemed himself from the truly awful, hedonistic lifestyle he led.’

  ‘Say that again,’ Paco mutters.

  ‘Question,’ I ask them both in a tone that snaps their attention onto me, ‘is this my mind making all this up? Because I know I’m dreaming right now so…’ I motion between them with the now empty cup, ‘so I can’t possibly know this…what you just told me… Hang on, wait, is Sarah here?’ I ask suddenly.

  ‘No, my friend, she is not,’ a deep voice snaps from behind me. I freeze in position and hold still, ‘Chris,’ I say without looking, ‘you’re here?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You shaved your beard off too?’

  ‘Not in a month of Sundays,’ he laughs as I turn, and even though I know I’m dreaming, I can’t help but feel a sense of elation at seeing him again. He looks the same as ever, big, broad and with that dark beard and bright, intelligent eyes.

  ‘Mate,’ I grin without shame and we clasp each other in a tight hug as the tears prick the backs of my eyes.

  ‘She’s not here,’ he says once we’ve separated, ‘but we don’t have time for that now. There are things you need to know. We’re all connected, remember that.’

  ‘Connected? Do what? I want to see Sarah.’

  ‘Connected,’ Paco says, ‘all of us…we’re all connected…’

  ‘By what?’ I ask belligerently.

  ‘By you,’ Meredith says, ‘you are the key stone in the bridge.’

  ‘I’m not anything in anyone’s bridge. In fact,’ I look between them ‘the bridge can fucking do one as far as I care.’

  ‘In here is with you,’ Chris continues, ‘out there is without you.’

  ‘Fucking what? That doesn't make any sense.’

  ‘Don’t let them win,’ Paco drawls, forcing me to turn.

  ‘They will achieve one race if you stop now,’ Meredith says.

  ‘One race,’ I roll my eyes, ‘I keep on hearing that now.’

  ‘It’s what they want and it’s what they will achieve,’ Chris takes his turn.

  ‘You three are like a fucking choir.’

  ‘Grow up and listen!’ Chris snaps, ‘this isn’t about you. We’re dead…we lost our lives…this is about what you can do…’

  I stare back, shocked and feeling ashamed at my own flippancy.

  ‘…you,’ he points, ‘will see this through.’

  ‘But…’ I stammer.

  ‘No buts,’ a fourth voice cuts through, causing me to groan inwardly. Not her, anyone but her, ‘no buts, Mr Howie…you wanted to lead so you lead.’

  ‘Debbie,’ I turn to stare at the police sergeant dressed so immaculately in her uniform, ‘here as well then, and no…I did not want to lead.’

  ‘Well, you are leading now,’ she offers me a smug smile, ‘so lead and do a proper bloody job of it. Stop this pissing about and get on…’

  ‘Whoa,’ I cut her off with a wave of my hand, ‘no offence, it’s great seeing you all again and all that but…um…where is my sister?’

  ‘In time,’ Paco says.

  ‘Ah sod this,’ shaking my head I take a step away then stop, turn back and tap the side of my own head. ‘I’m dreaming,’ I say to all of them ‘none of you are real… so… yeah… bugger the lot of you.’

  ‘He needs something,’ Meredith says.

  ‘Too bloody right I do,’ I retort, ‘I need to see my sister.’

  ‘It’ll mess him up,’ Paco shakes his head.

  ‘We should do it,’ Debbie says firmly.

  ‘Do what?’ I ask, completely lost now at the private conversation going on between them.

  ‘I vote no,’ Paco says equally as firmly, ‘think what it could do.’

  ‘He needs to believe in himself, he needs to see it through,’ Chris snaps, ‘and desperate times call for desperate measures.’ All eyes are on Paco, even mine as we wait to see his reaction. He thinks for a second and finally looks to Meredith who nods at him.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he holds both hands up, ‘what then?’

  ‘What what?’ I ask the group at large.

  ‘Dave,’ Chris says.

  ‘I agree,’ Debbie replies.

  ‘Dave what?’ I say exasperated that this is my dream but they’re carrying on with idle chit chat and ignoring me.

  ‘Agreed,’ Paco nods. ‘Listen up, buddy,’ he turns to face me, ‘what do you know about Dave?’

&
nbsp; ‘Dave? Little bloke? Kills everything? That Dave?’

  ‘He’s a regular smart ass,’ Paco shakes his head.

  ‘Arse,’ Meredith replies.

  ‘Whatever,’ the American says, ‘Dave was an orphan…do you have that word here?’ He quickly asks the others, ‘is it orphan here too?’

  ‘Yes it is,’ Debbie says.

  ‘I wasn’t sure,’ Paco says, ‘lot of different words seeing as we share the same goddam language.’

  ‘The language we invented you mean,’ Chris replies with a long look.

  ‘Oi…’ I interrupt them, ‘Dave was an orphan?’

  ‘He was,’ Paco nods, ‘he was eight when his parents gave him up.’

  ‘Eight? Fucking hell, that’s old for adoption isn’t it?’

  ‘They couldn’t deal with him,’ Debbie says softly.

  ‘Fuck,’ I look down at the ground, ‘poor sod…do you think he remembers?’

  ‘Would you?’ Meredith asks in a tone that does not require an answer, ‘the point is we are giving you that so you believe us.’

  ‘Huh?’ I blanch at her words but they’re gone. All of them and I’m not in the church anymore but back in the street surrounded by the grimy ruined buildings and the dark things mooching about.

  ‘Howie.’

  ‘Lani? Where are you?’ Her voice is muffled yet distinct and I feel the invisible touch of a cobweb brushing against my cheek.

  ‘Howie!’

  ‘Lani…Lani I’m here…’

  ‘Mr Howie!’

  ‘Lani! I can hear you…where are you?’

  ‘Mr Howie!’

  ‘Leave him alone…’

  ‘Dave? Is that you?’ I spin round and round, unable to pinpoint the voices, ‘leave who alone?’ A drip lands on my cheek, something wet that I wipe away.

  ‘He needs to wake up,’ Lani pleads.