The Undead Day Sixteen

by RR Haywood

  ‘We’re going to get you out of the boats but we need to process you before you can go inside…’ Lilly steps into the smooth explanation as Maddox turns to look out of the still water and the land beyond.

  The golden, beached bay sweeps inland gently and the blackened stumps of the ruined estate look stark and ugly as they protrude above the water. His eyes follow the bay towards the houses set back. They’re expensive beachside houses and the only place close left close enough that could house someone.

  That’s where she’ll be. Watching the fort. Is she watching now? Staring at the tiny figures on the beach.

  ‘Where’s the adults?’ A rough voice snaps his attention back to the group clamouring from the boats. ‘They’re just bloody kids…you seeing this?’ A bearded older man shakes his head in distaste, ‘bloody kids with guns…where’s the grown-ups? Where’s this Mr Howie and his army gone?’

  With an inward sigh, Maddox knows Marcy will have to wait and as he steps towards the man, his mind shifts into the task at hand and the diplomatic skills he’ll need to keep the day running smoothly.

  Twenty-Two

  ‘Down.’ Gregori turns from the back door and squats in the narrow corridor. The boy slides down and gets pushed quickly into a corner. ‘Stay here.’ The Albanian ducks out of the back door, checks both directions and quickly gets back inside before closing the door quietly.

  ‘Boy,’ he squats down to face the child, ‘they come…I fight…you stay…’ He speaks quietly and urgently. ‘Yes? You do this?’

  ‘Okay,’ the boy replies without fear.

  A narrow corridor runs from the front of the building to the rear. Locked doors lead off to store rooms, offices and staff rooms. A recessed side door sits next to the plate glass display window and double doors of the clothes shop. It’s painted white but with black scuff marks down both walls, indicating this is the service entrance, but the walls are solid and high. The floor is concrete which gives good grip. The width doesn't allow more than two at a time to come down.

  An egress point is behind them so this makes a perfect tactical point to hold them off for a while. He can kill. Let the bodies mount up and cause and obstruction. The rest will ram in behind then he can use the egress point and take the boy into the dark shadows of the night.

  He draws both knives and holds them with the blades pointed down while he breathes slowly in through his nose and exhales out through his mouth. His heart rate lowers instantly and the running with the boy has warmed his muscles and expanded his lungs to drive more oxygenated blood to his body.

  He glances back to make sure the boy is staying put, and as the sound of drumming feet and snarling voices gain ever closer, he once again wonders what the hell he is doing. But that thought vanishes as the first undead arrives square in the purposefully left open doorway.

  A calm descends. The calm he has been trained for since a child. The resonance strikes him and again he turns to look down at the boy standing quietly behind him. The beast snarls with wild abandon at seeing the prey is close. The boy stares with interest as Gregori feels a prickle of discomfort at realising he was the same age as the child when he started his training.

  He looks back at the oncoming undead then back to the boy. He was young, young like the boy is, and he too was unafraid. That’s why they chose him. His father’s debt had to be paid but they could have taken that payment in many different ways. His father could have been put to work, his mother used as a sex slave until the debt paid. Property, or what little they had could have been taken but they took the boy instead.

  He remembers it, that day they came. He remembers hearing his mother sobbing and his brothers and sisters cowering in fear while he stood at his father’s side waiting for the unsmiling men. His father was stoic, firm and so full of pride but ultimately he was weak. He gave up his own child but he did it to protect the rest of his family. Weakness and strength. Honour yet servitude.

  The men had already chosen Gregori. They knew he was different from the stories in the local school. How Gregori got into fights with much bigger boys and never backed down, how Gregori never cried and never told tales.

  The transaction was simple. The men came in and waited. Then the old man came in and stared down at Gregori before nodding without a flicker of emotion. That was it. He was chosen and he was taken.

  The years after stream through his mind in an increasingly rapid succession of images. He views himself as a third person and never through his own eyes. He sees the small child being taught the ways and the beatings he took when he got it wrong.

  The boy looks up to lock eyes on Gregori as the beast surges down the passage with the uncontrolled blood lust of a newly turned undead. They are approximately three days old and they are strong and wild, and have yet to evolve into the coordinated monsters they become.

  ‘Watch,’ he turns back to the boy, ‘watch me.’

  ‘Okay,’ the boy nods.

  ‘Learn,’ Gregori has time to nod once before slamming the impaled undead into the wall and wrenching the blade free with a vicious twist. Blood sprays from the arterial cut and soaks against the wall but not one drop touches the Albanian. The passage fills as they charge down but Gregori has chosen his ground well, and takes one small step back. The already downed body impedes the next who trips, staggers and has her throat cut as she falls.

  With two down, Gregori holds his position. Using the minimal amount of effort, he slices and stabs into the seemingly never ending supply of bodies.

  ‘Neck,’ the single word rings out and Gregori quickly glances back to make sure the boy is paying attention, ‘neck…’

  ‘Okay,’ the boy repeats.

  ‘Slice,’ Gregori slices. ‘Slice,’ he does it again. ‘Slice,’ he keeps sweeping the blade across throat after throat. The sharpened steel whispers with the faintest of brushes but enough to go through the seven layers of epidermis and rupture the artery in the side of the neck.

  Hot, crimson blood pumps high and to the sides but the position of the cuts, the bodies and the killer mean never a drop touches him.

  ‘Stab,’ Gregori sticks a blade into the larynx of a fat male, ‘stab, twist…see?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stab…twist,’ he turns his wrist while pulling the blade out thereby destroying the windpipe and causing a massive loss of blood which runs down into the lungs of the undead, ‘stab, twist…slice…stab, twist…slice…see?’

  ‘Yes…sausages.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sausages.’

  Both hands blur as he moves forward in a sudden charge and the passage becomes clogged with bodies downed with slit throats and ruined necks. He stabs one through the eye while easing the blade across the throat of another. He ducks to avoid a hand scything through the air and while low, aims for the hamstrings and Achilles tendons he can reach. Growling snarls, grunts and howls sound out as body after body falls to land noisily in the deepening pools of blood.

  Those dead start to get punted across the floor and a wet scraping sounds adds to the noise. Gregori gets pushed back as the onslaught keeps coming. He moves faster but they push harder. He kills more but more keep coming. Thousands upon thousands have perished in the densely populated working towns packed into the north of the country. Thousands and more that are fresh and driven to take more hosts and this is a foe the like of which Gregori has never seen before.

  A light sweat breaks out on his forehead as he grunts from the exertion of the work at hand. He takes what cuts he can, slicing open stomachs to release their contents and in the heat of battle he hears the boy give a cheer at the sight of the glistening sausages being spilled.

  ‘BOY,’ Gregori hacks left and right in the final blur to gain a vital few seconds, ‘Come…’ Breaking from his spot, he runs to the boy, squats down and then launches off towards the back door. With a swift kick it opens and he’s out into the sultry night, running down the rear service lane. The corridor behind him fills with the undead pushi
ng and driving forward until those bodies are disgorged from the doorway to spill left and right. Legs and ankles are broken as the raged beasts surge over and through the obstacles. They fall with twisted limbs but instantly start crawling.

  Gregori spares a glance back and immediately increases his speed as the first runners break free from the pile up and start after him. The service lane is blocked on both sides by the high walls of buildings and the only doors and windows are secured with metal shutters or thick iron bars.

  With no choice he pounds the road with the boy gripping his neck. Holding the knives ready he can’t spare a hand to help secure the boy, which factors into the speed he can go. Another glance back and the runners are gaining. Pistols wedged into his tight waistband, a knife held in each hand and a child clinging to him. He could ditch all of them and sprint safely away and that thought is considered along with every other option that presents itself.

  Diversion and distraction is called for. When faced with overwhelming foes and unable to find a safe extraction point you must give the pursuers something else to worry about, but until such an opportunity lends itself to use…then you run.

  He does run. He runs as fast as he is able to given the circumstances but he knows they’re gaining. At the end of the service lane he takes a right knowing this will lead him away from the area of the town he was in.

  More shops, stores, charity shops, bookies, dry cleaners, shoe repairs and the hundred and one other independently owned shops found on the edges of every town centre. Sounds from every direction speak of danger close. Screams and wails of utter pain, misery and terror. The growls of the undead heard close but not seen. Glass being smashed. Thumps and bangs as objects are thrown.

  The deeper into the town he heads the more he hears and all the time those behind him charge after in a long procession that will simply never tire or run out of steam.

  A woman runs across the road ahead of him screaming at the top of her voice at being chased by the small horde of undead hot on her heels. She aims for a doorway as Gregori watches, knowing the mistake will cost her life. She slams into the door, hammering and screaming and suddenly it opens with a sliver of orange light. She’s pulled in as Gregori instantly changes direction.

  ‘WAIT,’ he bellows ahead, ‘CHILD…I HAVE CHILD…’

  Five ahead of him. The five that chased the woman. He slows enough to be able to fight without fear of tripping and gauges the positions of each. The first is a male with a balding head that deviates from the door and heads straight towards Gregori, only to slew off to the side from the combined shoulder barge and laceration to the artery in his groin. It’s a difficult cut to do at the best of times given the thickness of the thigh muscles and on a moving target at that. But it works and the blood sprays down onto the pavement as Gregori swivels and back steps. The remaining four charge through the freshly laid pool of blood to be cut down by vicious hands holding vicious knives that give vicious cuts.

  ‘CHILD…’ Gregori roars… ‘I HAVE BOY…’

  The door opens again, just a fraction, but it’s enough for Gregori to slice the last one down and charge across the short distance. With a half turn, he aims the solid muscle of his shoulder into the door and powers through.

  ‘Get in,’ a man hisses as others grab his arms to pull him clear. In a split second Gregori has taken the sight in. A packed room full of survivors. Some dressed in evening clothes of dresses, trousers, smart shirts and others are workmen in thick blue cotton trousers and polo shirts. A bare concrete room with one other door leading out and several candles flickering violently from the drafts of air created by the opening and slamming of the door.

  ‘You alright?’ A man with a deep voice asks Gregori. Others appear in front of him and a woman starts to ease the boy from his back.

  ‘Let him down,’ she whispers urgently. ‘Get the bloody door closed!’

  ‘It is closed.’

  Voices in accents speak back and forth and Gregori reverts to type. Head down, avoiding eye contact in case they should recognise him in the future. He counts the pairs of legs, one, two, three…nine people. Five men and four women.

  ‘Is he your son?’ A different woman asks.

  ‘Give them water.’

  ‘Are you bit?’

  ‘They’re at the door.’

  ‘That door is solid, nothing’ll get through that.’

  ‘Here mate, have some water.’ A bottle is thrust under Gregori’s nose which he takes with a curt nod and drinks deep. Fluid must be taken on board. Enough to prevent dehydrated but not so much it bloats or causes cramp.

  ‘Boy,’ he turns and spots the child’s face being cleaned with a wet-wipe. The boy watches Gregori closely and doesn't utter a word. There’s a connection between them as though the boy knows what’s about to happen.

  ‘Drink, boy.’ Gregori hands the bottle over and watches as the boy takes a few glugs.

  ‘Fuck me…they’re going fucking nuts to get in,’ one of men whispers in a terrified voice.

  ‘Ssshh,’ another one says too loudly giving away his own panicked state.

  ‘Can they get in?’ A woman asks.

  ‘Helen, how many were coming after ya?’ The man who gave Gregori a drink speaks to the woman who got in just ahead of him.

  ‘Fucking hundreds,’ she gasps out between ragged breaths, ‘few…a few after me…but he had tons…’ she points at Gregori.

  ‘They can’t get in can they?’ The woman cleaning the child’s face asks.

  ‘Back?’ Gregori nods to the other door.

  ‘Leads to the front of the building and the High Street…fucking crawling with ‘em, mate.’

  Gregori nods and affects to wipe the sweat from his forehead while all the time checking, scanning and thinking. They won’t be at the front. They all came after him so he knows there won’t be any at the front and now they know this once concealed entrance holds fresh meat, they won’t stop until they get in.

  Thumps and bangs at the door confirm his thought processes. Solid bangs as undead launch themselves against the solid wood of the door that vibrates and rattles the frame. Showers of dust sprinkle down from the plaster above, glittering in the candle light, and each fresh bang elicits a worried gasp.

  ‘He’s got guns. ’Ere, mate, you got two fucking guns...’ A man points to Gregori’s waistband, ‘where you get them from?’

  ‘I find,’ Gregori shrugs.

  ‘Find? Find where? Tom, you’re ex army…you know how to fire guns?’

  ‘What pistols? Yeah, did ‘em in basic…never used one but I remember. ’Ere mate, you’d best hand ‘em over.’

  ‘No. I keep,’ Gregori keeps his tone low and his eye contact down.

  ‘Listen, mate. You said you found ‘em. Tom there is ex-army so he’d better have ‘em.’

  ‘No,’ Gregori shakes his head and gently slides the knives back into his waistband so the blades run parallel with his legs.

  ‘Mate, we’re not fucking asking,’ the man whispers urgently, ‘give ‘em to Tom. We need them guns and they best off with someone who knows how to use ‘em.’

  ‘I know,’ Gregori replies.

  ‘No offence mate, but you don’t look like a soldier…you Polish or sommit?’

  ‘Yes. Polish,’ Gregori nods, ‘Polish army.’

  ‘Polish army? Nah mate, hand ‘em over. You can stay with us but we’re having the guns…come on,’ the man holds an expectant hand out as Gregori weighs the options while remaining devoid of expression.

  He half turns at the loud thumps coming from the door. He listens to the cracking of the plaster above the door and knows the door will yield within fifteen minutes. The plaster will fracture which will loosen the frame and it’ll be that frame that gives.

  Hundreds. Maybe more. Maybe a thousand. Just in this one area and no doubt more rushing to join the frenzy. Diversion and distraction. Nine people. Thousands of infected. The odds are not good but they’re enough.

  ‘Mate
,’ the man snaps, ‘guns…NOW!’

  ‘Yes,’ Gregori nods but doesn't move as he looks down and clocks the positions of each person and calculates the way they are likely to move when he starts, ‘boy?’

  ‘Yes, Gregoreeee.’

  ‘Stay still.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Still for what? Mate, we’re having them guns,’ the man moves first with what he thought would be a warning hand gripping Gregori’s shoulder. He’s several inches taller than the Albanian and outweighs him by at least thirty kilos. Bigger. Heavier. Stronger and with people he already knows.

  But slower. His wrist is broken first, followed a split second later by a loud crunch as Gregori slams his open palm into the back of the man’s elbow. He lets that strike carry through with a fluid movement that he reverses, and he strikes back to slam the blade of his palm into the man’s voice box.

  ‘FUCK!’ Tom shouts and lunges to grab at Gregori, who side steps and holds a foot out to trip the ex-squaddie. With one hand he gently reaches out to snuff the closest candle, then darts round the back of the now screaming survivors to the next candle. One only remains but the light is now poor enough.

  Old habits die hard. He draws one knife and blinks slowly. ‘I Gregori,’ he announces to the room and starts stepping through them.

  The first cut is the woman who ran in ahead of him. A deep slash across her stomach and the blood oozes out thick and fast as she screams. Gregori knows the closest man will lunge at him instead of backing away. He has that look about him, clean shaven, tidy hair and serious eyes. For his efforts he gets his hamstrings severed and falls crying to the ground. Tom, back on his feet forgets every part of his training and rushes forward with a furious yell. Gregori, anticipating the attack, back steps and flicks the blade gently across Tom’s outstretched arm. The deep cut to the wrist sprays blood high and wide as Tom spins, screaming as his blood drains faster than he can cope with.

  Round the room he goes, cutting, slashing, disabling but not killing. He doesn't want to kill. He wants blood, as much blood as can be spilled without causing instant death.