The Undead Day Sixteen

by RR Haywood

  The first goes still. Derek clutches his stomach as the pain cramps with agony he has never experienced before. On the floor he writhes as his vision blurs until it darkens and the screams of the dying from all around him are blotted out as his heart ceases function and his brain dies.

  So fast was the attack that for one minute there is nothing other than the undead standing drooling amongst the dead bodies. Low growls, hisses and snarls start to echo up and down. Then the first twitches happen, followed closely by the next and another after that. Electric currents passed through muscles that spasm back to life as the infection re-starts the heart in the true state of living.

  Brains are accessed and any thoughts other than the sole desire of the infection are quelled and suppressed. The whites of the eyes of the freshly dead bloom with blood as the visible tell of the infection takes over. Saliva is produced, thicker than before, copious in amount and laden with the deadly virus. Fleshy hands that just seconds before were soft and flaccid now curl as the tendons lock the claws into the place. Eyes snap open. Heads roll as mouths open and snap shut. Slowly they rise to their feet and gone are the uncontrolled infected of the beginning when they would stagger on stiff legs and spasm with uncontrolled bursts of energy sent into muscles foreign to the infection.

  These infected are understood and the infection is now experienced. The infection has them standing as one. Without motion. Without movement. Eyes fixed and open. Drool forming to drip.

  There. The infections rifles through the recent memories of the re-activated brains and hundreds of heads snap to the side as the infected stare down the lane towards the munitions factory.

  There. Howie. Dave. Clarence. Blowers. Lani. Cookey. Nick. Paula. Roy. Jagger. Mohammed.

  There. They are there. Those that defy are within the munitions factory. Those that refuse to die are here.

  The infection is within every brain and the decisions are collective as the hive mind sorts through the knowledge of the newly taken hosts. Within seconds it knows the inside of the munitions factory, the layout, the exits, where the stairs are, the ruined reception area and the hole leading in.

  It feels, hears and sees the memories of those that cowered inside as a raging Howie broke through the supposedly reinforced wall.

  The infection examines those memories without mind or conscious. Howie is raging. Howie is broken and dangerous. He attacked innocents and was taken down by Dave. The infection hears the screams of Howie as he battered the Saxon back and forth. It watches from many points of view as Howie first appeared grinning through the hole. A different Howie. A broken Howie. A Howie pushed to breaking point and he lies unconscious and prone within a side room as the group falter and panic without their leader.

  Bullets. Rounds. Shots. The factory made the bullets and within those walls are millions of bullets. Enough bullets to stem the tide of the infections desire for one race.

  One race.

  Bullets.

  Without Howie the group are leaderless but still dangerous. With their leader down they will fight harder than before to protect him and the infection knows that Howie commands greater love than any man alive now.

  They will fight but without the heart of their group their strength will diminish. The small one, Dave, will stay by Howie’s side and only fight if Howie is threatened. But they have millions of bullets and the weapons to fire at them with.

  The infection desires a frontal charge with a growing urge to attack and end this now but the infection also knows this has failed time and again.

  As one, the infected snap their heads back to face the other direction towards the town from whence they came. As one they start running towards they town. Broken legs no longer give pain. Broken limbs do not cause an issue now and those wounds that bled freely now clot to congeal the flow.

  Drumming feet sound along the earthen path as the infection sends them down the country lane, and as the sun lifts free of the horizon so the first break free from the path and into the streets and houses.

  Fine motor skills are easy for one undead but with so many the infection cannot control those fine skills. As one, the hosts could drop down to tie their shoelaces but only if they all did the same motions at the same time. The infection knows there is a balance between maintaining complete control and having a basic tool to work with, and drawing back to allow a greater conscious entity within each host. That balance is yet to be found but the infection works and practises with every minute of every day.

  Cars windows are smashed as dead arms reach through to drop handbrakes. It takes time but the vehicles are shunted and pushed onto the main road leading to the munitions factory.

  The infection then holds the hosts still and silent as it works with the least injured of the newly taken hosts.

  Derek stares at the car in front of him then walks quickly to the rear quarter panel where he levers the fuel cap open and turns the plastic cap within. He grabs his shirt, rips it from his flabby body and shoves it bit by bit into the fuel cap. Then he draws it back out and lets it hand sodden with fuel down the side of the vehicle. Derek goes still.

  Bob actives and repeats the actions. Getting the fuel cap open before using his own clothing to form the wick.

  Jennifer is next. Then fourteen year old Danielle. Fuel caps opened. Material soaked and primed. Jonathon does his then each goes still and obedient.

  The infection sweeps an examining ripple through the newly taken hosts. One man moves to draw his lighter from his pocket. He thumbs the wheel and a spark is made but no fire. He tries again and this time holds the little black lever down. A small flame is made. His spare hand makes a flat palm which is held low over the flame until the skin blackens, burns and finally blisters as the heat burns through the layers of epidermis.

  One by one. Four more draw lighters and one by one, those four ignite the flames. They each move to a vehicle. Five vehicles. Five bombs made. Five undead holding lighters.

  The infection takes the many and sets them against the weight of the vehicles which move instantly from the combined strength of so many.

  The country path is too narrow so the infection takes the main road and brings the motion up from a walk to a jog to a sprint as the five vehicles are swept towards the munitions factory.

  The infection evolves.

  One race.

  Eighteen

  Day Three.

  A killer of men. A killer of women and children. A killer with no compassion. Ruthless beyond compare, his name brought fear throughout the criminal underworld. His was a name synonymous with retribution. The ugly man meant the end. If the ugly man came for you then it was already too late.

  His hands have wrought death and he views the human body as a surgeon would: a cut here bleeds out quickly. A bullet in the gut right here means a slow painful death and like a surgeon he can remove organs from the still living and show it to them as they die.

  He fears nothing. He is nothing. Void. Empty. A machine disguised as a human but with no emotions or sentiment attached.

  ‘Gregoreeeeee,’ the boy looks up at the pock-marked skin of the ugly man.

  ‘Gregoreeee,’ the boy says more urgently and tugs at the hand of the killer as he speaks.

  ‘What?’ Gregori scans. Always scanning. Always watching. Forever watchful. He knows the distance to the first hard cover and the time it would take to get there. He knows the exits and paths leading from the immediate vicinity and which vehicles would be easiest to take. His senses are always heightened.

  ‘Need a wee wee.’

  ‘What?’ He glances down with irritation, ‘we?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ the boy nods, ‘need a wee wee.’

  ‘What we we, we here…we go there,’ Gregori points ahead, ‘we find the chisburger.’

  ‘I need a wee wee.’

  ‘What? What we? What is we?’

  ‘Toilet!’ The boy giggles.

  ‘Toilet,’ Gregori repeats the word and shrugs, ‘go then.’

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nbsp; ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere. Go anywhere. I not care.’

  ‘But,’ the boy looks round with suspicion, ‘where though?’

  ‘Here,’ Gregori shrugs and scans the area, ‘there,’ he points to one side, ‘or there,’ he points to the other side, ‘I not care. Go toilet.’

  ‘So I can wee wee here?’ The boy asks through narrowed eyes as though this is not possible.

  ‘We we? What? Yes…yes go.’

  ‘Right here?’ The boy looks down at the pavement, then up at Gregori then round at the road littered with bodies, pools of blood the ever present signs of carnage.

  ‘Yes,’ Gregori huffs his first ever huff and rolls his first ever roll of the eyes, ‘go…I not care…poop on the street,’ he shrugs.

  The boy bursts out laughing, ‘you said poop,’ he giggles.

  ‘What? Gregori sneers, ‘poop is not funny. Poop,’ he repeats and looks down in distaste at the boy cracking up in fits of giggle. ‘What?’ He snaps, ‘poop… is not funny… poop… poop… is word…. poop…’ he shrugs with each pronunciation, ‘poop…’

  ‘Poop!’ The boy wails with a face flushed from laughing, ‘you said poop, Gregoreee.’

  ‘Yes. I say this. You poop now,’ he nods down at the boy.

  ‘I don’t need a poop,’ the boy roars in delight, ‘I need a wee wee.’

  ‘Piss?’ Gregori asks, ‘wee wee mean piss, yes?’

  ‘Oh no!’ The boy stares up with a look of pure delight on his face, ‘you said a rude word.’

  ‘What?’ Gregori huffs his second ever huff, ‘I not understand.’

  ‘Mummy said that is a rude word.’

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Don’t look,’ the boy suddenly turns round and bends slightly forward as the pressure on his bladder increases, ‘can I really wee wee here?’

  ‘Yes. Yes you do the wee wee and the piss and the poop…’ Gregori, already turned round on request of the boy darts a quick look over his shoulder to see the boy shuddering with laughter as the jet of piss sprays everywhere, ‘poop and piss and poop,’ Gregori shrugs, ‘I not care.’

  ‘I’m weeing in the street,’ the boy laughs and leans back to aim higher, ‘haha, I can wee in the street….can I wee on that dead man?’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘Will he know I wee wee’d on him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why can’t I wee on him…’ the boy gasps as he stems the flow and hops forward to the corpse lying face down a few feet away.

  ‘I’m weeing on a dead man’ the boy singsongs as he resumes the urination on the head of the corpse.

  ‘Boy. No,’ Gregori snaps, ‘not do this.’

  ‘You said he was dead,’ the boy half turns to glance at Gregori, ‘and you said dead are dead and they are dead and they…’

  ‘I know what I say but…’ Gregori pauses trying to think of the right word in English, ‘this not…it not…’ he screws his face up, ‘bad…bad to piss on dead man.’

  ‘Finished!’ The boy announces, ‘you can wee wee on the dead man too if you want to, Gregoreeee,’ the boy offers with genuine sincerity.

  Gregori looks over at the wet puddle forming on the ground beneath the corpse and the dribbles across the tarmac. ‘Come…’

  ‘We go,’ the boy mimics a deep voice as he skips over to the Albanian, ‘come…we go…’ he makes his voice deeper. ‘When we will have the Happy Meal?’

  ‘We find it,’ Gregori replies instantly but doesn't know why he replies or why they are looking for the MacDonald’s. He doesn't know why they don’t take a car and head somewhere. Anywhere. Where? Why?

  Where and why?

  A prickling within him. A feeling he never experienced before. Uncertainty and hesitation. Go where? Why?

  He is the ugly man and he always knows what to do. Someone always tells him what to do but then nobody ever tells him what to do. He is tasked and left to it but the parameters outside the actual mission are very closely defined. He is collected from the airport or seaport. Delivered to the target then collected from the target and extracted to a safe house until delivery back to the port.

  He stops in the street and stands staring ahead then just as quickly he starts walking again. Where? Why?

  ‘Are we there yet?’

  Where? Why?

  There is no mission now. His natural instinct is to head home for Albania and he knows he could take the boy with him. But they’d kill the boy at the first display of temper or tantrum the boy shows. Children in Albania do not behave like that. Not ever. They get beaten until they stop and if they die, they die.

  He could leave the boy. He should leave the boy. He can’t leave the boy.

  He stops and stares, then just as quickly he starts walking again.

  ‘Why we going so fast?’ The boy asks, ‘can you see it? Pick me up.’

  ‘No. I not see it. Shut up,’ Gregori hisses.

  ‘I want my Happy Meal.’

  He drops down and grabs the front of the boy’s t-shirt if a clenched fist, dragging the child to within an inch of his face. ‘Shut up,’ the gun is in his hand and pressed against the boy’s temple before Gregori realises.

  Where? Why?

  ‘Shut up,’ Gregori whispers again.

  No mission. No objective. Freedom escalates past uncertainty towards fear. He examines the boy’s face. The blue eyes framed by golden skin and the blonde mop of hair. A child. A tiny child with eyes that hold him rooted to the spot. There’s defiance within them. A daring for him to pull the trigger. The boy shows no fear but simply leans left to look over Gregori’s right shoulder, ‘up there.’

  ‘What? Where?’ Gregori stands and spins in one fluid motion.

  ‘MacDonald’s,’ the boy groans as though the answer is obvious, ‘it’s up there… Mummy used to come here and she went into that shop to look at the shoes and she always said shoes first and Happy Meal second…it was soooo boring,’ the boy rolls his eyes.

  ‘Come. We go,’ Gregori grasps the boy’s hand and tugs him along. Everyone is scared of him. Everyone fears the ugly man. Women scream. Men weep and children cower.

  ‘Fishy fingers fishy fingers fishy fingerrrrrrsssssss,’ the boy skips and sings while swinging Gregori’s hand, ‘and Gregoreeee is having a cheese burgerrrrrrrr…come…we go,’ the boy mimics the deep voice again, ‘cheeseburger…come…we go…I Gregori…I shoot you…Gregoreeee?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I shoot the gun please, Gregori?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But…but…please, Gregoreeee….just once…please….just once…I promise I’ll be good and everything…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please, Gregoreeee….I’ll be good and quiet and…and…and….please let me shoot the gun and make it go bang bang.’

  ‘You be quiet?’

  ‘Yeah soooo quiet….like a mouse that is asleep cos the mummy mouse read him a story and gave him warm milk and…’

  ‘You’ll be quiet? You promise this?’

  ‘Yeah! I promise and double promise and….’

  ‘One bang…’

  ‘One bang…just one bang….I’ll be quiet and…’

  ‘Okay,’ Gregori stops and looks round, ‘what? Shoot what? Window? You want break window?’

  ‘A dead man,’ the boy announces and earns a hard look.

  ‘You shoot window.’

  ‘A dead man.’

  ‘No dead men. Window. Car…look you shoot car.’

  ‘Dead man,’ the boy says firmly.

  ‘No. No shoot car…shoot window…shoot…’

  ‘Dead man,’ the boy goes to fold his arms.

  ‘Okay okay,’ Gregori says quickly, ‘dead man, you shoot dead man.’

  ‘In the head.’

  ‘In the head? You want shoot dead man in the head?’

  ‘Make his brains come out,’ the boy nods, ‘like you did.’

  ‘You see this?’ Gregori asks with raised eyebrows, ‘you really d
o this?’

  The boy nods and points further down the street to the unmistakable mound of a body lying prone, ‘that one.’ He strides off with confidence leaving Gregori to walk behind and watch as the boy gets to the body, stops and turns back, ‘he’s head came off already.’

  ‘Shoot chest.’

  ‘No. I want to make brains come out.’

  ‘No head,’ Gregori points down at the mangled body.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That…they look like sausages.’

  ‘Er…I not know the word…inside here,’ Gregori taps his own stomach, ‘they in here.’

  ‘Why did they fall out?’

  ‘The stomach,’ Gregori motions his own stomach, ‘you cut here and they come out.’

  The boy watches Gregori make a slicing motion across his own belly then looks down at the body. ‘Does your heart come out too?’

  ‘Everything it come out.’

  ‘Can you put it back in? Can that man have his sausages and head back in?’

  ‘No. They come out you die. The head it come off you die. The heart…’

  ‘Gregoreee,’ the boy cocks his head to one side, ‘does the man be dead when the sausages come out?’

  ‘I think…you mean, you mean he see them…he see them and then he dead?’

  The boy nods.

  ‘Yes,’ Gregori says matter of fact, ‘you show them to the man. He see them. Then he die.’

  ‘And when his brains come out can he see them too?’

  ‘No. The heart you show…seconds…one second…two second…three seconds and he die…the things in here,’ Gregori taps the boys stomach lightly, ‘you show and he die…the brain he die and no see.’

  ‘Will the man always be dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mummy said you go to heaven but the man is there,’ the boy points down to the corpse.

  ‘Not the body. The body is…’ Gregori frowns, ‘the body is like car…yes like car…but inside is not the car…inside here,’ Gregori taps his chest, ‘is not…I not know the word…soul? You hear this?’

  ‘Mummy got soles for her shoes in that shop,’ the boy points across the street.