by RR Haywood
He steps back and kicks the corpse in the ribs, still no reaction. A howl to his right, another beast surging forward. Gregori side steps again and repeats the action, grabbing the thing from the rear to snap the neck with a vicious twist. Two killed and both remain lifeless.
The street is now a warzone. Bodies lie everywhere, but those bodies do not stay dead as each returns to wreak greater havoc. The spread is so fast and relentless. This cannot be contained. With so many turned and taken, Gregori becomes the centre of attention. They surge and run jerkily towards him.
Both the pistols are secured in his waistband but he does not draw them. This is still a civilian street and there will still be cameras here. To fire a weapon now could still expose his identity. So he reverts to the neck snapping. One after the other comes to bite him only to find their spinal column severed from the neck down.
That technique becomes useless. Too many attack at the same time and to take the second to grab and twist leaves him exposed from the back. So he works a fighting withdrawal. His fighting manner is as he is, ugly and brutal. He lands vicious power filled punches to the throat, crushing larynxes and windpipes. He kicks at knee joints, breaking the delicate bones so the attackers fall but continue to crawl. He breaks arms, legs, necks, anything he can grip that gets too close to him. He turns and spins, using his own body weight against them. As fluid as water, he is precisely where he needs to be. The one he kills now is not the one he focusses on, but instead he is already working to seek the next viable attack and primary threat.
Up the street he goes until the barrage is too great and reluctantly he considers drawing the pistols. But even they will only stop so many and once the bullets run out these things will still be coming.
Gregori looks about, seeking anything that will provide him with a reliable weapon. The bright lights and gaudy posters of a Kebab house draw his attention. He recognises the pictures of greasy food, knowing there will be knives within so he fights towards that establishment. Gaining the entrance, he spots the pools of blood which show where the Turkish men have already been defending their place.
‘Knife,’ Gregori shouts at the men behind the counter. There are three of them, all dark haired and stocky and all three holding vicious looking knives that drip with fresh blood as they stab at the beasts clamouring over the counter. Switching to Turkish he shouts the word again, ‘KNIFE.’
This gets the response he wants and one of the men grabs another blade and throws it towards the ugly man. He lets it fall rather than risk catching a spinning sharp blade, but once in his hand he spins it over his knuckles in a rapid assessment of the weight, the density, the balance. It’s a standard, well-built, long bladed, kitchen knife with a sharp point and a blade that has been reasonably cared for. It’s enough and with the new weapon he goes to work.
The floor is already littered with the dead bodies of the things trying to get over the counter to the workers beyond. The brief seconds of respite as Gregori got the new weapon enabled a fresh group to all surge towards the brightly lit kebab shop. They breach the door, a growling, hissing bunch of deranged beasts that bare their teeth. The first feels the plunge of the blade driving deep into its throat, a quick and nasty twist and the blade rips a hole open. Blood and air escapes the newly turned hole, spraying a fine mist of infected blood to where Gregori was standing but he’s already shifted position and is upon the next one, slicing quickly to draw the sharp blade across a throat. Dropping to his knees he stabs up at the next one, impaling deep into the genitals before driving upwards and letting his shoulder impact on the beasts face sending it slamming back into those that gather behind. Like skittles they reel back and away. Gregori gains the door and steps back, using the strategic positioning of the doorway that forces them to attack two at a time rather than as a large group.
The men behind the counter watch in disbelief as Gregori cuts, slices and thrusts at the bodies, killing one after the other after the other until they pile up in a meaty stack of bleeding cadavers. Seeing the respite from the attack they seize the opportunity to flee, running out of the back of the shop towards their waiting cars. A larger group of undead impede their progress and although still armed with their kitchen knives they lack the training and skill of Gregori and also the defensive structure of the high counter. They get kills, messy kills but instead of going for throat cuts they stab out puncturing chests and stomachs which has no effect. Taken down they are soon bitten many times over, punctured by blunt teeth that savage at their pliable flesh. The disease is passed and the beasts soon start heading for the rear door left open by the escaping men.
Gregori cuts swathes down and with the bodies stacking up the rate of progress from those outside becomes slower. He backs away, turning to see the men have gone and realising there must be a back door. Through the lift up hatch and into the kitchen but he freezes at the sight of the next horde barrelling through the rear door. Snatching up a second knife he holds his ground, using a foot to kick out and slam the hatch back down to impede the charge of those getting through the front door.
The small stainless steel kitchen area becomes a killing ground as Gregori uses every possible item as a weapon. Undead are pushed head first into the boiling hot oil of the deep fryers, their skin blistering to fall away in sickening chunks but still they live and turn to bite with the whites of their bones showing through. He stabs, kills and gets faster in the work as he goes.
Knives were a favourite weapon of his and a tactic still deployed when stealth and silence was needed. He is well versed in the ability to use two he warms up to the movement, his muscles limbering as his body heats. His mind is focussed to the task at hand as he reads the position of every assailant coming towards him. He could close his eyes and remember their position and still take them down without fear of being hurt.
He sweeps legs when leg sweeping is needed to fell a body and block the path of the next. He cuts down when that body falls, he stabs up on the upward movement and never energy or motion is wasted. His hands and arms become slick with blood, his new clothes soaked to the skin. He fights with mouth closed and keeps his head turned away from the spray of arterial blood.
But still they come and they get greater in number as the activity of this place ripples up and down the local streets. As more are taken so they seek fresh prey but soon that hunt becomes harder so they drift towards the place they know there is a new host waiting to be taken.
Getting backed into a corner Gregori glances about for something to use, he spots the small oil drums used to supply the fryers, drops down and punctures holes in the sides of several. Thick light brown liquid pumps out to coat the tiled floor. With care and precision he kicks over a stainless steel work unit. The long thick worktop forms a barrier to prevent the oil seeping back towards him. With his low wall he chooses his ground and fights from there.
They slip and slide, they trip and fall and every one that gets near the hastily placed barrier finds a knife coming their way. The oil works better than expected, the ground is treacherously slick. Another long unit is at the rear of the kitchen and Gregori vaults on top of it to kick the heavy microwave from his path. Using the steel worktop, he edges closer to the rear door and spends a few seconds slashing down to slice open the heads and faces of those that get close. With a leap he clears the slippery oil slick tiled floor and lands on the carpeted area by the rear door. He lands amongst the undead but he makes light work of felling those in his path as he charges through the doorway and gains clear open ground.
A quick look ahead and he can see an alleyway running away into the darkness. No obstructions. It’s the width of two men across so he runs to the mouth and turns back to hold position and let them come. Using the same strategy, he starts building a wall of bodies he kills to block the path, letting them fall one on top of the other. Between gaps in the killing, he heaves more bodies into place. With a minute or so gained he turns to flee down the alleyway, building to a fast sprint with the knives sti
ll clutched tight in his hands.
Nine
‘So? What do you think?’ I stand before them in my new outfit and get a imploring look from Lani.
‘No,’ she shakes her head, ‘really no…’
‘It’s fucking awesome!’ Cookey shouts, ‘I’m getting one…where are they?’
‘At the back mate,’ I nod happily.
‘They got ones in my size?’ Clarence asks with a thoughtful look.
‘No, please…no…’ Lani pleads looking round at the lads as they start heading towards the back.
‘Ladies,’ I grin at Lani and Paula, ‘they’ve got women’s ones too.’
‘Not a chance,’ Lani shakes her head firmly.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ Paula looks with interest at my new clothes, ‘they look hard wearing.’
‘You joking,’ I say quickly, ‘feel this material, it’s really thick but lightweight, got loads of room to move about and look,’ I wrench open the thick velcro fastening on the leg pockets, ‘they’re like properly waterproof, and any shit will just wash off…and they’ve got these little loops here that I can put stuff on.’
‘Knee patches are a good idea,’ Paula leans forward to finger the thicker material around the knees, ‘I might get some.’
‘No way,’ Lani recoils in horror.
‘Oh come on, don’t let me do it on my own,’ Paula laughs, ‘the top looks good too.’
‘They’re dungarees,’ Lani groans.
‘Sailing trousers actually,’ I correct her pompously.
‘Dungarees,’ she says dully.
I must admit, they are dungarees. It was Nick’s idea to hunt round for a sailing shop. Being so close to a harbour and in such an expensive area would mean there would be some high priced outlet nearby selling top of the range gear. It took a few minutes of navigating the Saxon but we found a row of small, and very expensive looking, boutique style designer shops and surprisingly they were all intact too.
One of the larger ones doubled as a sailing clothes and equipment outlet with a small coffee shop within, all nicely decorated with bamboo chairs and bamboo tables as though we are in Thailand or somewhere exotic.
With the others figuring out a way to power up the coffee machine, which comprised of Nick and Roy becoming new best friends as they figured out a way to use the power supply from the Saxon, I went off scouring the shelves. There were loads of garments and I found some brilliant tight fitting wicking tops, the type that draw the sweat and moisture from your body. I did find some standard cotton trousers and went to put them on until I discovered the sailing dungarees. Black material and high fronted to halfway up my chest with two thick but soft straps that go over the shoulders. Padding on the knees, hard-wearing yet really lightweight. Pockets everywhere and perfect. They were also priced marked at four hundred and fifty pounds which made it even better. Shit, I’ve owned cars worth less than that.
‘Got ‘em,’ Cookey yells, ‘Jagger, you want some?’
‘Fuck off!’ Jagger yells from somewhere else, ‘not a chance bruv.’
‘I’m getting ‘em,’ Mo Mo shouts, ‘fuckin’ perfect and they worth like five hundred quid.’
‘Five hundred?’ Jagger yells in disbelief.
‘Seriously bruv, ‘like this shit is worth loads of green.’
‘So ladies,’ I do a little twirl, ‘you joining the dungaree party then or what?’
‘I want to,’ Paula laughs, ‘come on, Lani,’ she urges.
‘I saw pink ones,’ I comment.
‘Pink? Do we look like we wear pink?’ Paula asks archly.
‘Um…no?’ I hazard a guess.
‘The top looks nice on you,’ Lani comments, ‘really tight and snug, and your backside looks nice,’ she adds.
‘Oh cheers,’ I grin, ‘yours would look nice in them,’ I change tack and get a grin in response.
‘Oh come on,’ Paula laughs and pulls Lani up, ‘let’s go shopping.’
‘Ah, when you say it like that,’ Lani concedes.
‘No, it’s going to be AC,’ Nick walks in holding a reel of electrical wire in his hands that must have been pilfered from somewhere.
‘Marine cord,’ he gives me the answer, ‘chandlery just up there, Dave is choosing some new knives.’
‘Oh,’ I nod, ‘bet he’s happy then.’
‘You alright?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah boss,’ he grins, ‘Roy is wiring the Saxon up and I’m doing this end…er…nice dungarees,’ he comments, ‘they got anymore?’
‘Loads mate, at the back…LADS, can you get Nick and Roy some of our new uniform please?’
‘Will do,’ Blowers shouts back.
‘Uniform? Nobody said anything about uniform,’ Lani calls out.
‘Mr Howie has decreed we all have to wear the dungarees,’ Cookey yells, ‘er….Mr Howie, have they got to be black?’
‘Um, yes,’ I reply, ‘why? You found some yellow ones or something?’
‘Oh yes,’ he laughs, ‘Jagger is looking at some green ones too.’
‘No, stick with black or we’ll upset Dave.’
‘Roger,’ Cookey yells.
‘Need a hand mate?’ I ask Nick bobbing about behind the big coffee machine. He comes up holding a set of wires between his teeth and a pair of wire strippers in his hand.
‘No thanks,’ he mumbles.
Dave walks in holding a big cardboard box with what can only be described as a content look on his face. I already know what must be inside the box before he sets it down and starts spreading the contents on the sales counter.
‘Bloody hell,’ I remark casually at the wicked looking long bladed knives he spreads out.
‘Divers knives,’ he comments quietly, ‘high tensile and very well made, good grips too, the weight isn’t balanced but for stabbing and cutting they’ll do well.’
‘Got it,’ I nod slowly, ‘what are those?’ He pulls out some black material and thicker black objects.
‘Sheaths and leg straps, enough for everyone and some left over, I found this one for Clarence,’ he holds up a huge commando style knife, ‘do you think he’ll like it?’ He says almost nervously.
‘Eh? Like it? Yeah course he will.’
He stares at the knife for a second, ‘I think I annoy him,’ he looks at me quietly then back at the knife.
‘Sometimes, but then we all annoy each other. Being a team does that,’ I say quietly, ‘and you’re not used to working in a team…and Clarence is…’
‘Okay, Mr Howie,’ he says, ‘should I give it to him or…?’ The shock of seeing Dave floundering at social skills still gets to me. Such a natural born killer with virtually no compassion and yet he seems utterly lost at the prospect of giving someone a present.
‘I think he’ll like it if you do,’ I say carefully, ‘it would mean a lot to him.’
‘I er…I found this too,’ he pulls out a shiny multi-tool with a canvas holder that straps onto a belt, ‘er…maybe Nick might like it, he er…he’s good with tools and…’
‘Dave,’ I feel almost choked with a lump in my throat, ‘shit mate, that’s a really thoughtful thing to do.’ To see him now, struggling to understand and flitting between pure panic and embarrassment at his own inadequacies is awful. It makes me want to do something, to rush in blundering so he doesn't have to feel like that.
‘What’s that?’ Nick wanders over picking a bit of wire out of his teeth, ‘looks fucking cool…I mean er…it looks cool,’ he corrects himself at appearing to swear at Dave.
‘It’s for you,’ Dave thrusts it out quickly.
‘Huh?’ Nick blanches, ‘what?’
‘I got it for you,’ Dave’s voice is firmer than it needs to be, like he’s compensating for his nerves at giving someone a present.
‘Seriously?’ Nick reaches out to take the multi-tool, glancing between the object and back to Dave with a look of complete confusion, ‘wow…er…’
‘And this goes with it,’ Dave pushes the canvas holder across
the counter towards Nick, ‘it’s like a sheath…and the hoops at the back go on your belt so you have it to hand when you need it…’ he trails off as Nick stares with mouth open at the gift.
‘Dave, I er…thank you,’ Nick looks up and speaks earnestly, ‘really, fuck….thank you.’
‘S’alright,’ Dave shrugs, ‘your good with tools so…’
‘Yeah, I mean…cheers Dave,’ Nick looks the same as I do, clearly shocked yet deeply touched at the same time. Looking past Nick I see the lads in view, Lani and Paula stood near them and all watching the exchange take place quietly. All of us staggered at the sudden display of affection from Dave.
‘Everyone get a knife and a sheath,’ Dave is back to being Dave, ‘strap them on and make sure they’re secure.’
Nick drifts off back to the coffee machine holding his new multi-tool like it’s a prized possession. I watch him carefully slide it back into the canvas holder then tuck it safely into his pocket. I doubt he’ll ever use it for fear of damaging it.
The others drift back, laughing and joking as they wear matching sailing dungarees, Jagger, Mo Mo and Cookey all piss about putting the straps up without tops underneath and don wide brimmed sailing hats.
‘You ready?’ I hear Roy shouting from outside at the other end of the long wires trailing back to the Saxon lost from sight in the fog.
‘Yep,’ Nick shouts, he stares hard at the machine for a few seconds. ‘Is it on?’ He shouts.
‘Yes,’ Roy bellows back.
‘Oh,’ Nick grins round sheepishly, ‘didn’t turn it on.’ He flicks a switch and watches a row of lights come on, ‘got it…working,’ he yells. Roy appears in the doorway smiling at the victory which turns into a look of concern at the sight of everyone dressed in black dungarees, especially the three lads messing about without tops on.