The Undead Day Sixteen

by RR Haywood

  ‘Everywhere,’ the boys says as though talking about something innocuous.

  Gregori stops dead and pulls the boy up to do the same. Eyes closed, head bowed and the Albanian lets his sense of hearing come into play. He relaxes with easy breaths and takes stock of the natural noises around them. No wind and no breeze. The air is heavy and hot. There. A noise. A pattering sound. Running feet. Many running feet. Shoes and bare soles slapping on the tarmac. He slowly turns to make use of directional hearing. From behind. Many from behind. Sides too. Noises of doors being opened, furniture being overturned and slammed aside. Ahead, more noises but less than the others.

  ‘Come,’ he tugs the boy and starts walking faster, then jogging while checking to make sure the boy can keep up. He jogs faster, monitoring the boy and sensing the child can go faster still.

  At the speed he judges the boy can run at without tiring too quickly, he keeps going while all the time scanning and checking, picking out obstacles in the darkened path ahead as he charges down the centre of the road. The street lights blink on, slowly in ones and twos, but the solar powered sodium lights soon illuminate the street. They are visible now and Gregori knows that their profile will be easy to spot from the predator eyes of the undead.

  They are faster than the boy can run. The sounds of the feet drumming get closer and soon the solid mass of charging human shaped monsters fill the road behind them. Figures crash from the doorways of houses, spilling out into the street, windows crack and smash as bodies fling themselves to get through at the fresh prey outside. With a quick glance round, Gregori judges the undead will reach them within a few seconds. He stops, yanks the boy back and quickly swings him up onto his back.

  ‘Hold,’ Gregori forces the boy’s arms round his chin, placing the small hands on his jaw. ‘Tight, tighter,’ he barks, ‘use legs.’ He feels the pressure as the boys legs squeeze at his sides.

  He has two pistols and two knives. The pistols are drawn quickly, one in each hand. He spins to face the charging mass and picks out those closest. Shots boom out as he fires the right, then the left, then the right. Those in front are slammed back as the 9mm bullets ram through their skulls to scramble the brains within. Despite the moving targets the shots are true and the hands holding the pistols are as steady as a surgeon.

  Those in front are taken down but there are not enough bullets to shoot the mass. Deftly and with a blur of speed, he ejects the spent magazines and slams fresh ones in while turning to start running again. The pistols are tucked away securely and he draws the knives. One in each hand with the blades turned up against the forearms.

  ‘Tight,’ he commands the boy, and feels the pressure of the hands on his jaw and the legs at his sides increase. He jogs, gets faster, adjusts his rhythm and gait to the weight on his back and builds his speed up. Breathing easily, he moves with grace and power. His heart increases the flow of blood, his lungs expand to deal with the increased demand for oxygen. His pupils dilate to adjust to the dark shadows and gloomy air around them. He is a machine, relentless and unceasing. As night chases day chases night, so Gregori runs and matches his speed to those chasing him while carrying a child on his back.

  From the side a figure bursts from an open door. Slipping, it goes down on an unseen obstacle but its forward momentum has it crashing through the thin fence of the front garden. It charges. Direct, red bloodshot eyes fix intently on Gregori, the mouth already open to make ready for the bite, fingers clawed at the end of sinewy arms. Gregori doesn't deviate. He doesn’t flinch but calculates the point of impact and makes the tiniest of adjustments to speed and direction. At the last second he simply raises one hand and brushes the sharp steel across the throat of the undead that spins off spraying a hot arc of blood into the air.

  More stagger into view ahead. The drumming feet behind are still as close as before. Gregori counts the foes ahead and stops when he reaches thirty. With a clear mind he calculates the options, weighing up the risks, threats and chances of survival with each possible path. He judges the prospect of running into one of the houses, but without knowing if there is an escape route at the rear, the risk of being trapped in a high walled garden is too high.

  ‘Tight!’ He reaches up, taking care not to cut the boy with the knives, and pushes the small hands into his own chin, urging the boy to hold as tight as possible, ‘keep eyes closed,’ he mutters.

  ‘I want to watch,’ the boy whispers in his ear.

  Gregori doesn't have time to answer but plots the kills ahead of time. A solitary undead charges out ahead of the others. He stabs it quickly through the jugular without breaking stride. His eyes search for a gap. Spotting a slight distance in the front ranks, he selects his targets and gets ready for the impact, hoping the boy will remain clamped on.

  He veers off to intercept the one coming in from the left, a big beefy man with a shaved head and covered in tattoos. With a graceful flick, he sends the knife in his right hand spinning away to embed into the throat of the one charging at him from the front. As he cuts the throat of the tattooed man, the one in front staggers into reach with the hilt of the knife sticking out from its neck. Gregori spins, yanking the knife free and lunging sideways to hack again at its neck. Two down and now the two from the right coming in for the final charge. He simply extends both arms and lets the momentum of the charging undead drive into the points. With a wrench of the wrists, two jagged holes are formed in the throats before he pulls the blades free and steps through them to let them stagger and fall behind.

  He starts running again and his mind has already moved on from the kills behind him to the solid ranks coming from the front. He powers on, driving his legs faster as he aims for the slight gap between two women, one of them naked with fat breasts slamming up and down with the gait of her own staggered running.

  ‘Boobies,’ the boy whispers again, staring at the pendulous things that seem alive and moving of their volition.

  Gregori runs into the gap, arms held slightly out and the two women are cut down. The press of undead turn and start pushing in but find their own kind impede their movements. Gregori ducks, weaves, bobs and ever presses forward. His fast eyes seek each kill and lock onto the next target while his hands do the work. Sliding into gaps, he weaves and threads a path through the undead, killing anything that stands in his way. Like water through a rockery he takes the path of least resistance, fluid and graceful despite the weight of the boy clamped onto his back. The boy doesn't scream or cry out but remains silent as the gritty work of killing is done again and again.

  With a new factor to consider, the safety of the boy on his back, Gregori works to a different rhythm and cadence than normal, never allowing a hand or arm to reach in from the sides or rear. The heat builds in the muggy air and from the press of bodies exhaling rotten, fetid breath. The boy generates heat too which traps the air between them. Gregori starts to sweat, his own body reacting to that of the environment as it serves to reduce the external temperature. The boy also sweats with a light perspiration that glistens on his forehead but slowly increases as the beads form and slide down his face. His arms exude sweat, his stomach and back too. The sweat seeps from his pores to lubricate his hands which grip Gregori’s chin. They start to slip and slide so the boy digs in, scrabbling to gain purchase on Gregori’s stubbly jaw. His legs also start to slide over the sodden material of Gregori’s shirt.

  While flowing through the gaps created and feeling the pressure from the horde as those chasing up the street join the fray, Gregori feels the boy losing purchase. In response, he drops his head and pushes his chin out hoping it will give the child something more solid to hold. It works for a few minutes but the sweat works between the fingers and onto the palms, dripping down Gregori’s chin and sliding in thick rivulets down his cheeks.

  Desperation sets in. They’re surrounded on all sides by a pressing horde of snarling beasts that lunge in ever increasing frenetic movements as they go for the bite. He snarls back, his upper lip curling while
his body ramps up a gear. His arms blurring with stabs and slices while he works to keep his central core as stable as possible so as not to shift the boy. But he has to move forward, to stay still invites death so forward he goes, ever forward with one foot after the other.

  A swerve or a sudden veer to the side will see the boy sliding off, but the undead press from behind and he knows his blind spot is now the weakest point. His left hand tucks the blade into his waistband as he spins on the spot. He moves with such sudden power that the boy slides round on the spot to end up facing Gregori, who wraps that left arm round the boy’s back.

  ‘Hold,’ he grunts into the boys ear and feels the small arms loop round his neck.

  Now with the boy held to the front he only has one arm to use but with the burden held stable he makes progress, his left hand pressing into the back of the boy’s head, pushing it hard into the cavity between his neck and shoulder.

  A glimmer of light ahead between the dense ranks tells Gregori there is an end point, a destination to aim for. He moves on with his right hand doing the work of two. Slicing, thrusting, killing and slaying. He’s almost there but they press in, blocking his route in a desperate surge. He plunges the knife into a chest, puncturing the heart which causes an immediate, severe internal bleeding as the muscle haemorrhages blood into the lungs. Trying to wrench the knife free, the blade snaps leaving inches of steel stuck in the undead’s chest. Without a flicker of reaction, Gregori drops the broken knife and draws a pistol. Eight shots ring out as he fires each of the rounds in the magazine. Eight are killed instantly. The pistol is pushed back, a twist in the torso and he draws the second pistol. Another eight shots and another eight instant kills. Sixteen are killed within a few seconds and enough of a gap is created that he can push through. The last two block his path. The first gets pistol whipped straight to the nose, fracturing the bone so hard it splinters and send shards deep into the brain. Gregori shoves the pistol away before bringing his hand is back up to reach out and grip the last undead blocking his escape by the throat.

  He spins round holding the writhing beast one handed by the neck and presents the back of the undead to the still lumbering zombies behind. Fingers strong and trained crush the small bones of the voice box, driving them inward to pierce and rupture the airways and cause blood to rush down into the lungs. Still the undead lashes out with clawed hands that reach towards Gregori’s face. With a vicious kick he boots the undead away and it falls to the floor and trips several more undead as they drive on.

  Gregori is away. One handed he holds the boy in place while he builds to a sprint. His breathing is hard but regular. His right arm swings to maintain balance and coordination.

  Sprinting at maximum speed he outstrips those still chasing, creating distance as his dark eyes flick side to side ever searching for an escape. House after house flash by. Long streets with semi-detached and terraces. The plans race through his mind. Use a vehicle but that means entering a house to find keys which takes time, time for the undead to catch up.

  He spots an alley to the right, the entrance illuminated by the glow of a solar sodium street light. He veers off, turning tight on the spot and charges down the narrow path bordered on both sides by high brick walls. At the end he bursts out into a darkened place of an expanse of concrete. His eyes adjust quickly, picking out the rows of garages and a possible escape route which he takes with barely pause for thought.

  ‘Can we go home for my pyjamas please, Gregoreee,’ the boy asks in a tone so light and innocent that Gregori snorts with despair. A tone that assumes this can be done. He’s been running, fighting, killing and sprinting to escape but of course they should go back for his night-clothes, why wouldn’t they?

  A small hand reaches up to rub at his face, the soft skin of the palm pushing against the stubble on his jaw.

  ‘It hurts me,’ the boy rubs at the stubble as though to brush it away.

  ‘Sorry,’ Gregori huffs but keeps running.

  ‘Gregoree,’ the boy precludes to another question forming in his mind, ‘do you do shaving?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gregori hisses the word while picking out the lie of the land ahead, noting the undulating terrain, spotting the raised kerbs, the old tyres stacked up and the debris littering the ground.

  ‘My mummy does shaving on her legs, do you do shaving on your legs?’

  ‘No,’ he takes a hard left into the mouth of another alley, driving his legs to push them further into the near pitch dark.

  ‘Mummy says mummies shave legs and daddies shave faces…do the monsters do shaving?’

  ‘No,’ he grunts. Why isn’t this boy terrified? He should be too terrified to speak let alone ask questions about shaving.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Find…find…’ Gregori gives up trying to answer, instead focussing on keeping his breathing regulated as his lungs work harder to oxygenate the blood flow to his muscles.

  ‘Find pyjamas?’ The boy asks with hope.

  ‘No!’

  The end of the alley he takes a left, heading away from the general direction of the horde. He runs down the street, this one appearing less damaged than the previous. Reaching a T-junction he doesn't hesitate but heads right and keeps his legs pumping to drive on. Smarter houses, bigger with nice windows and front gardens. Gregori takes it in, constantly scanning the doors and windows. Some damaged with dark smears of blood but others looking intact and solid.

  Still too close to the horde and too close to this area so swamped with them. They keep going, feet pounding the ground as the heat between them builds to uncomfortable levels. The boy shifts position, his arms tired from holding on.

  Gregori spots the entrance set back from the road. A high wooden fence hidden amongst low hanging trees and thick hedges run wild from years of neglect. A driveway that winds up and away from the road. He takes it quickly, rushing to the side and away from the sparse gravel on the surface of the rutted roadway.

  He gets the feeling of space to one side, large grounds beyond the tree line. There’s a gap in the hedge and he pushes through to the other side but keeps going. Moonlight shines bright overhead and down on the tiled roof of the big building ahead. It’s an old manor house, large and detached from anything else. Perfect. Old houses have solid walls, deep windows and strong doors and with any luck enough gap has been created that the chasing horde won’t know the direction they took.

  But there’s light in the ground floor window. Soft and orange, flickering with shadows that speak of candles lit within. No tactics this time but he heads for the front door, slowing at the last few metres but still holding the boy tight. Breathing hard he wraps knuckles on the door, turning to glance down at the route they took. Movement inside, voices low and murmuring, a door opens and soft footsteps reach his ears. He knocks again, softer this time but urgent and fast and again checks behind to see if they’ve caught up yet.

  ‘Go away,’ a voice hisses through, deep and distinctly male.

  ‘I have child,’ Gregori forces his tone to be lighter than normal, quavering his tone to imply a sense of fear.

  ‘Piss off,’ the voice responds instantly, ‘we’ve already got enough kids here…we’re full up…’

  ‘They chase us…please…’ Gregori pleads at the door before checking behind.

  ‘No!’

  Gregori frowns once as he tilts his head at the door. Lowering the boy down he crouches to press his mouth close to the boys ear, whispering softly, ‘stay here, I open door from other side…you stay…’

  ‘I want to come with you,’ the boy whispers back in a pleading tone.

  ‘No, boy,’ Gregori speaks softly with no hint of anger in his voice, ‘please…do this…stay here…I quick…I Gregori…’

  ‘Promise?’ The boy whispers.

  ‘I promise this,’ Gregori whispers then stands up before moving silently out of the recessed doorway. Staying low he circumvents the front of the house, heading round the perimeter checking doors and w
indows, pausing to listen and absorb the natural sounds and noises. He gains the rear, climbing deftly over an old stone wall to drop into the soft earth of a flower bed. Crossing the raised patio he makes his way to the wooden back door and his mind slips into work mode. A house full of targets. Subjects that need to be negated, an objective to achieve.

  The remaining knife is drawn, the long thin blade slides easily between the gaps of the sash window. With the slightest of creaks he works the interior lock over and pushes the bottom sash up. It creaks on old hinges, squeaking into the night with a noise that would send a burglar packing. Gregori shoves harder, forcing the gap big enough to get through.

  Heavy feet running towards him from inside the house. His upper body through and he pauses with the knife held ready. A dark room, a dining table to one side.

  ‘He’s coming in the back,’ a voice shouts.

  ‘Get the shotgun up here,’ another yells. Gregori’s eyes stare hard at the door as his brain processes the incoming information. Shotgun. England only allows double barrelled shotguns, not large capacity pump actions. Two shots to deal with.

  ‘In the kitchen,’ the first voice yells out. An interior door is kicked open with a loud thud telling Gregori they are in the next room along and that he has enough time to climb through the window and cross the room to stand beside the door interior door.

  The shouts and footsteps get closer, crossing the kitchen adjacent to the dining room within which he stands. The door bangs wide from a solid kick. Stupid people full of fear and panic, allowing their fear to channel into anger as they rampage about telling any possible invader exactly where they are.

  The front of the shotgun appears, waving left to right as the holder peers into the room. Gregori waits, holding position. The barrel sweeps left, right, left again. The person holding it can see the open window and knows someone is inside but not being able to see them and it sends the panic and fear ratcheting up through his body. Gregori notices the tremble in the barrel, the slight shake as the sweeps become quicker.