by RR Haywood
‘He’s in here,’ the voice whispers hoarsely.
‘Get in there then,’ the second male orders but with the same level of panic in his voice.
‘Can’t see ‘im…oi mate…you in here? I got a shotgun…come out with your hands up!’
Pathetic. Adjusting position, Gregori faces the back of the door and pulls one leg back before sweeping it forward in a powerful kick that slams the door into the extended barrel. The holder clutches in fright, pulling both triggers in blind panic that sends a deafening boom into the enclosed space. Both shots negated, Gregori steps round, wrenches the door open and grips the hot barrel with one hand to yank it towards him, pulling the man into the room and onto the point of the knife that stabs deep into the eye socket driving through into the brain. With a low gurgle the man drops down leaving Gregori holding the shotgun and the knife in his hand facing the second man who pisses himself in terror.
Gibbering with fear the man stays rooted to the spot as the ugly man advances with frightening speed. He has sickly, grey, pock-marked skin, greasy brown hair and eyes that seem to bulge from sunken sockets. A rough hand clamps over his mouth and his eyes widen as the knife drives into his gut, twisting, cutting, shredding and spilling the sticky hot innards onto the floor. Dead in seconds and the man slumps down to join his mate.
Gregori drops to wipe the blade on the t shirt of a corpse. His eyes already up and on the next open door. Head cocked to one side, voices, scared and worried. Female, male. He moves off into the hallway and instead of booting doors open with raging fear, he silently opens each in turn to check the inside.
The last room. The one the orange light was coming from. The door knob squeaks as he turns it, the hinges creak as the door swings inwards to reveal three women and a man. Two of the women are young, in their twenties. The last are an old couple, grey haired and staring as wide eyed as the others. Silent and terrified they stare at the blood soaked vision of a nightmare that enters the room.
‘Children here?’ Gregori asks softly.
‘What!?’ The old man gasps, ‘children? No…no children…’
‘No boys?’ Gregori asks just as softly.
‘No,’ the old man shakes his head, ‘no boys…no children here…who are you?’
‘I Gregori,’ Gregori announces, ‘I need the pajajamamas.’
‘What?’ The old man stares in horror.
‘Pajajamamas,’ Gregori repeats, ‘the boy wears the pajajamamas…I need these…’
‘Pyjamas?’ The old man asks, aghast at the surreal shock, ‘no…no we don’t have any…’ he glances at the others as though utterly confused.
Gregori shrugs and closes the door behind him, sealing them in the room.
Minutes later, the last of the bodies is shoved down the stairs into the basement. He took care killing those in the front room to prevent too much blood loss. Quick kills with stabs to the heart and the old couple had their necks broken. They tried to scream and fight but fighting against Gregori doesn't work, it just makes his job easier.
With a grunt he shoves the old man roughly down the stairs and closes the door to the basement, turning the key in the lock before pocketing in his trousers and heading for the front door.
‘Come,’ he says as he opens the door to reveal the boy staring up with wide eyes.
‘You were ages and ages,’ the boy says reproachfully as he crosses the threshold. Gregori checks the view, no sign of the undead, no sign of anything. The shotgun blasts were loud but from a distance they might be muffled enough to confuse the exact direction. Door closed, bolted and locked he turns to see the boy waiting patiently in the hallway.
‘Are there people here?’ The boy looks round at the doors.
‘No, they go,’ Gregori replies.
‘Where did they go?’ The boy asks innocently.
‘They go,’ Gregori shrugs, ‘I ask and they go.’
‘Oh,’ the boy looks up at Gregori, ‘do they have pyjamas?’
Five
‘Ready?’ Clarence takes a deep breath.
‘Yep, you want me to take the lead?’ Paula asks, ‘might be less threatening than some giant bloke holding an axe.’
The big man thinks for a second while glancing down at the double headed axe held in one hand. ‘Yeah, alright,’ he nods, ‘we need ammunition.’
‘I know we need ammunition.’
‘And we’ll offer to escort them back to the fort.’
‘Yes, Clarence, I know that.’
‘Tell them we’ve got a sanctuary and that it’s an island now, tell ‘em we’ve got loads of people there…’
‘Clarence! Yes I know.’
‘And we’re desperate for ammunition, we need 9 mil for pistols, 5.56 for the assault rifles and…’
‘Okay,’ Paula snaps, ‘I’ve got it; just let me do the talking at the start. Come on,’ she takes the lead, moving away from the group sat forlornly near to the still prone form of Howie. Threading through the quality control section of the factory they pass small side offices used by the shift supervisors and admin staff before reaching the big double at the back. Windows, toughened and set high into the walls, allow the bright moonlight to bathe the room in a silvery light.
Reaching the doors she pauses, clears her throat and knocks gently on the thick wood,
‘Hello? Anyone there?’ She calls out in a polite voice, taking care to keep her tone respectful yet firm. Years of dealing with accountancy clients, stressed from impending cut off dates for tax returns and VAT inspections, have equipped her with proficient skills in negotiations. She knocks again, a symbolic gesture of waiting to be invited in instead of just barging through into the next section. These people will be shocked and terrified to the core. Having had their almost fort-like building rammed by an army truck then attacked by a screaming man, well, they’ll be less than hospitable.
She knocks again after getting no response, ‘maybe they’re further back,’ she murmurs to Clarence.
‘Maybe, let me try,’ a huge bunched fist thumps on the door a few times, ‘HELLO?’ He bellows.
‘Clarence,’ Paula groans.
‘What?’
‘You’ll terrify them.’
‘Stop saying that, I’m not that bad.’
‘You are,’ she looks up at him, ‘in this light, really, you are,’ she nods seriously.
‘Well they’re still not answering,’ he huffs, ‘just go through.’
‘We should wait,’ she points out, ‘until we’re invited…or,’ she tuts as he pushes past to stride through the doors, ‘or we could just go straight in,’ she mutters to herself.
‘Hullo!’ Clarence tries to adopt a less threatening, more jovial form of greeting that has Paula wincing at the sight of him lumbering through like some cheerfully psychotic lunatic. The lack of response is concerning but it gives her a chance to swiftly move in front and take the lead, ‘stay behind me,’ she whispers.
‘Haven’t got much choice have I really,’ Clarence mutters, ‘where are they?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replies quietly as they make their way down a darkened corridor, pausing to check inside the side offices and staff rooms, ‘probably right at the back away from us.’
The signs of habitation are everywhere with offices converted and used as living quarters complete with makeshift beds, shoes, clothing, books left lying open and half burnt down candles. It smells of people too, of people living close together, of sweat and food, feet and the scents of the living.
‘This doesn't feel right,’ Paula whispers quietly, ‘it’s like the Mary Celeste.’
‘Nah, they’re at the back like you said…having a meeting probably,’ Clarence says giving up on the whispering.
Another set of double doors indicate the end of the office and administration section. Paula gets there first, knocking and calling out with her body positioned to block Clarence. There’s no response and after a few more knocks she gently pushes the door open to peer inside.
; ‘Factory floor,’ she whispers back to Clarence, ‘can’t see anyone though.’
‘Go through then,’ Clarence urges. She does, stepping into the room and calling out a greeting. Machinery, large and small, dominate the huge hangar size room. Stainless steel surfaces with inert red warning lights cover the area and the walls are adorned with safety notices informing staff that full protective equipment must be worn at all times. Conveyer belts, processing plants, machines to spin, crush, wash and do a thousand other tasks in a few minutes that would take human hands many hours to accomplish hulk down in the shadows. Wars are supplied from this room and the effect is not lost on Clarence. His nose fills with the smell of gun oil, lubricants, hot brass and the distinct smell of casings. The rounds he has laid down in service for his country in war zones all over the world, the rounds fired back at him, the friends, colleagues and enemies he has seen cut down by the tiny objects, were all mass produced in this room. Millions of them, billions, and every size and calibre are made here to be sent out simply so man can kill other men.
He thinks of the muted conversation in barracks, and mess rooms, and the angry bitter words spoken right after fire-fights when they realised the bullets sent at them were also produced in British and American factories, only to be sold by lucrative contracts to supposedly stable countries that then sell them on for a further profit.
This one building, this one room must be responsible for the deaths of millions of people worldwide and now, in the desperate hour when their species faces extinction and they need it the most, the machines lie quiet and useless. Hunks of metal, plastic and electrical wires all leading to other useless lumps of metal and plastic. This room should be functioning night and day non-stop with a queue of people outside lined up ready to take arms against those things.
‘There’s no one here,’ Paula looks round then up at Clarence with a searching gaze.
‘Keep going then,’ he mutters back and steps in behind as she walks down the central aisle towards the rear end. Their heavy boots sound out each step on the bare concrete surface of the floor, echoing round the room with a noise that only serves to increase the eerie silence.
To the end they go, traipsing past the silent machines that glint moonlight from the polished sections on display. Doors lead off to offices once again converted into living spaces but all are empty, devoid of life and soundless. Without a word spoken they move from room to room, checking, looking and searching. Through another set of double doors with a sign that indicates they are heading towards the storage and distribution sections. Another corridor but this one bare concrete walls and unadorned with any furniture. Red lines painted on the floor indicate the track marks for the machinery used to haul the heavy pallets, boxes and cases from the factory to the areas set aside for sorting and distribution.
Another hangar style room lies through another set of heavy double doors but this one is devoid of machinery other than electric forklift trucks, mobile jacks and haulage devices. Cranes fitted to the solid metal girders overhead rest quiet to gather dust. Sections are marked with letters, stencilled high onto the walls ready to be piled onto trucks and sent out to the many police, armed services and conflict zones around the world.
Clarence picks out the stacks of boxes and crates identical to the ones seen on the naval supply ship they boarded just days ago. Stacks and columns of them. Cases of small and large calibre rounds, sniper rounds, heavy machine gun rounds, fifty calibre rounds and, within a sectioned off area complete with signs warning of explosives, rests cases of hand grenades, mortars and mines.
‘Dave is gonna love this,’ Clarence breaks the awed silence.
‘Are they all bullets?’ Paula whispers.
‘Yep, rounds of every size and shape, see that,’ he points off to the explosives section, ‘grenades, mortars and mines.’
‘Wow,’ she recoils at the sheer amount of stock waiting to be shipped out but instead of the link to death being made, her mind works another route. What are the processes here? How is each round and each case accounted for? What is the flow from production to shipping them out to clients? The paper and audit trail must be immense. Whatever accountants work here must be flat out from the minute they start work.
‘It’s incredible,’ she stares in awe.
‘It is,’ Clarence nods thinking of how many undead they can cut down now and a sense of a definite shift in the balance of power from the things to the survivors.
‘But still no people,’ Paula starts walking through the room, ‘HELLO? ANYONE THERE?’ Her voice rolls round the room, echoing back from the high metal clad sides and reinforced concrete walls. ‘This is…’ she pauses, ‘isn’t right,’ she announces firmly.
Clarence grunts while shining his torch to the sides as he walks down the length of the room, ‘know what I think?’ He asks slowly.
‘What?’
‘They’ve gone.’
‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘Gone,’ he shrugs but the movement is lost in the darkness, ‘left…gone somewhere else.’
‘Really? No way,’ Paula walks fast to join him as they cross the expanse of floor, ‘where would they go?’
‘They aren’t here,’ Clarence states matter of fact, ‘so if they ain’t here,’ he looks over at her, ‘then they’re elsewhere.’
‘Yes,’ she bites the urge to snap at him, ‘I get that but why would they go?’
‘Why? Why d’you think?’
‘We scared them off? No…no way.’
‘Down there,’ Clarence shines the torch beam to yet another set of double doors but these ones fitted with the standard Health and Safety fire exit sign above. Huge things, thick metal panels fitted with iron bars and a lattice of studs with sunken hinges, fitted with alarms and dead bolts the size of car irons.
‘Yeah I see it.’ Paula sighs at the sight of the objects left strewn across the floor up to the double doors. Teddy bears, books, toys, bags, rucksacks, bedding and objects too bulky to move fast with. An image works its way into her head of men at the doors ordering the women and children to dump anything non-essential as they chose the danger of the night and the darkness outside to the threat of the maniacs within.
‘They don’t know what’s out there,’ Paula whispers sadly, ‘they’ve been here the whole time.’
‘Maybe they haven’t,’ Clarence replies weakly, ‘but still…’
‘They chose that over us,’ Paula finishes the sentence, ‘I…’ shaking her head from the surge of guilt flooding through her body.
‘I… What are you doing?’ She asks as Clarence pushes the solid bar down to find the door swings easily outwards. He steps out with the axe held ready, staring into the moonlight landscape of the cultured grounds surrounding the building.
‘Tracks.’ He shines the torch down onto the distinct area of flattened grass that cuts across the once perfect lawn as it undulates gently into the darkness and out of sight.
‘Fuck,’ Paula sags on the spot, ‘could we catch them up? Talk them into coming back?’
‘No, we get the ammunition and go back,’ Clarence about turns, heading back into the storage room.
‘But we can’t leave it like that, we’re responsible for them…’
‘No we’re not,’ Clarence snaps, baulking at the suggestion, ‘they chose to go, it’s up to them.’
‘They left because of us…families, Clarence, whole families turfed out because we…’
‘We?’
‘Howie then,’ Paula snaps, ‘but yes, because we bust in here.’
‘Why? Why did we come here?’
‘The ammunition,’ she replies missing the point.
‘Because we’ve run out,’ he answers with forced patience, ‘because we used them all up…killing the things…fighting against them…while they stayed in here safe and sound.’
‘Even so.’
‘No even so,’ he cuts her off, ‘they could have let us in or just as easily put some cases outside for us…they could
have done many different things but they chose to stay locked up and forced us to break in, Howie gave them a choice.’
‘Did he?’ Paula asks, ‘he was on his own when he spoke to them…I didn’t hear it and neither did you.’
‘What?’ Clarence screws his face up in irritated confusion, ‘what’s that mean?’
‘He’s being going downhill all day…his mental state I mean…how do we know what he said into the intercom?’
‘Paula,’ Clarence reaches his spare hand round to rub at his own neck that feels so tight and bunched up, ‘don’t ever question Howie…I’ve been with him for…’
‘Six….seven days? Maybe just over a week?’
‘Eight or nine,’ Clarence mutters, ‘but it doesn't matter, I would trust that man with my life…hell, I have trusted that man with my life…we all have…everyone has,’ Clarence trails off, ‘which is why he’s like this now.’
‘Yes,’ she draws the word out, ‘but all I’m saying is, we don’t know exactly what Howie said to them.’
‘So what? What does it matter?’ Clarence groans, ‘Howie could have told them we’ll get inside and burn them all alive for all I care…fact is fact, Paula…Howie has had one bad day since this began but even on his worst day he’s still the best human being I have ever met…and fact is fact that they were locked in here…fact is fact that we’ve been outside fighting and risking our lives while they stayed locked in here…frankly I couldn’t give a rats arse to what he did or didn’t say…we needed the thing they had and they didn’t want to share so we did what we needed to take it.’
Paula opens her mouth to reply but finds his words strike a chord of common sense. It doesn't feel right forcing people out of their safe place, but the safe place is a munitions factory and the stock they held inside could make the difference between life and death for so many.
‘I get what you’re saying,’ Clarence says after a pause, ‘and we did say we would offer them the chance to come back with us…but,’ he adds slowly, ‘what can we do? We aren’t splitting the team up to send people out looking for them, not at night.’