The Undead Day Eighteen

by RR Haywood

  She attacked them. My horse attacked the infected. A horse does not attack people. They are docile herd animals that give flight when in fear. They do not attack. I understand that Jess was trained in riot tactics and therefore a mass of noisy people would not, by itself, cause her fear. I also understand that Jess was “retired” from the police service due to displaying an overly aggressive nature in that she was happy to bite and kick. Which apparently is a bad thing for horses to do when policing peaceful events and demonstrations.

  Jess perhaps possesses a higher degree of aggression than normal horses but to charge and attack screaming howling people is incomprehensible. That she did it to seemingly protect that strange dark haired man is even more troubling for it means that she had capacity to understand not only that he was at risk, but what actions to take in response to that risk.

  Now she is eating oats and behaving distinctly horse-like again. If she could talk I would ask her what on earth possessed her to respond in that manner. However, she cannot talk. She is a horse.

  Hmmm, perhaps I have spent too much time in my own company. Perhaps I am losing my ability to rationalise and hold normal cognitive function. Ah yes, perhaps yesterday did not happen and it was simply a figment of my imagination brought about by prolonged exposure to fright and stress. Yes. No. It happened.

  That dark haired man was cut and appeared to have bite marks. He was under a large mound of infected hosts that were clearly all targeting him. He must have been bitten and cut but he survived so therefore he must be immune.

  The list I have in my possession contains names of those believed to have immunity. That list was compiled during my time in The Facility and was taken by me when I escaped and started my preparations on learning the true purpose of the infection.

  We had unrestricted access to data in The Facility and those included medical records. Those medical records were examined to find those that had a chain of DNA that matched to the immunity.

  Every person who ever had a medical procedure, gave blood or was subject to a blood test. Those who were screened for sexually transmitted diseases. Every person arrested and taken into police custody. Every member of the armed services. Every member of the emergency services. They all had their DNA taken and stored. Consent was not gained and the whole process was most unlawful. To store the essence of people without their consent or knowledge is an absolute invasion of privacy.

  But thank God it was done. It enabled us to find out who had immunity and it enabled The List to be compiled which in turn prompted me to escape and commence this absurdly dangerous undertaking.

  On that note, I will record clearly here within my diary, should it ever be found, that I am not suited to work of this nature. I am not a soldier nor a person of bravery or courage. Jess has more bravery and courage in the hairs on her tail than I possess in my whole body.

  That said, The List is the fundamentally most important document in existence. I have to find those who are immune and take steps to take what they have to end this. That dark haired man is immune but I do not know which one he is. I do not have photographs or images of the people on The List. Given time I could have cross-referenced the names against the driving license and passport agencies databases and matched the last obtained image. But there wasn’t time. I have only names and last known addresses.

  So my mission, for now at least, changes. Instead of working through the list I will try and find that man and his group. If they have survived yesterday that is. If I find evidence of their deaths I will continue with my originally intended plan.

  I must go back to Finkton and commence my investigation. In the rain. Did I say it was raining?

  NB

  Neal Barrett.

  Three

  ‘First town ahead,’ I call back. On the motorway and the sight is biblical. Like the floods that made that crazy man build a boat to save a few pigeons and a goat. Maybe that was a zombie apocalypse too. Everyone became brain eating fucktards and it rained for ages and some mad bloke made a boat. New bible right there.

  Using the central reservation as a guide I build the speed up and get a gratifying sensation at pummelling through the water until the waves at the sides are spraying against the door windows.

  Fortunately the next junction is on an incline and stretches up and across the lanes on a flyover to a huge roundabout poking up like another island and this time I follow the signs for whatever the name of the town is. Names don’t matter now. Place names are gone, road names are gone, famous landmarks mean nothing and each town now only represents foraging and points of danger.

  As we get closer so we start to see houses and structures at the sides. Some built higher and safe from the floods. Others, mainly the newer builds, are already flooded with water getting through the broken front doors.

  With the closer proximity to urbanisation so too we start to see the flotsam and jetsam picked up by the water and floating along on the surface. Litter and debris mainly but larger items hidden from view and the first corpse almost goes by without notice as just the rounded back shows until we’re bumping it away and the thing rolls onto his back to reveal a face torn away but washed clean so the bones and sinew show clear. Rags of clothing, paper, crisp packets and all manner of things floating or caught in the hundreds of whirls and rip tides.

  Closer to the town centre now and every street has red, white and blue bunting hanging from the buildings and lampposts. Some torn and hanging but mostly still in place from whatever festival or event was taking place. The signs of damage are horrendous and plentiful with nearly every window smashed and every door broken. From a roundabout we head towards the High Street and a sea of corpses floating grotesque and bloated. Broken market stalls show stark with red and white stripes and this town was in full swing of a local event when the infection struck. A scaffold and plank built stage in the middle of a large car park and the amplifiers and drum kit are still on view surrounded by dead bodies bobbing in the shallow waters.

  The High Street is actually away from the town centre and being on an incline the water level is less so there are fewer bodies littering the ground. Quiet now as we watch the macabre view go past and start working on the task at hand to find a bank. We see several but they’re just shop fronts in amongst the clothes shops, opticians and cafes.

  ‘There…Lloyds,’ Clarence points off to his side at the large Victorian façade sitting squat on a junction of a side road. I aim for the opening of the side street and manoeuvre down to see the long side wall of the bank giving way to a razor wire topped solid concrete wall and a high metal gate fitted with security cameras and signs warning of security patrols and to keep access clear at all times. ‘Pull up by the gates and I’ll check,’ he says.

  He jumps down and runs through the rain to pause at the crack in the centre where the gates meet, a thumbs up and he runs back with a big grin, ‘three in there.’

  ‘No way,’ I reply not expecting it to be this easy.

  ‘What did he say?’ Roy calls out.

  ‘There’s three armoured vans in the yard,’ Clarence shouts, ‘pop the gates open with the Saxon,’ he pats the front wing and backs away as I reverse to gain a run up.

  ‘Once we’re in the yard everyone out the back and guard the perimeter, hold on…’ I don’t go fast as the Saxon doesn't need speed to batter things down. The torque and power of her engine just needs forward momentum. I aim for the middle of the gates and push the accelerator down as the vehicle connects. A wrenching metallic sound that screeches followed by something snapping and the gates burst open as the Saxon surges forward with the sudden cessation of resistance at the front.

  The second the vehicle comes to a halt the doors burst open and we drop down into the rain with weapons up and raised and I don’t need to give any orders as Blowers takes his group onto the street and the rest of us fan out into the puddled yard while Roy runs to three dark blue armoured vans.

  Square looking with riveted windows and doors. Thi
ck tyres, robust and they look almost military in design. I was expecting the rounded Ford Transit style things but these are far more modern Mercedes with bull bars across the grille giving a sign of the already dangerous times we lived in where greater security was given for the transit of cash than the health and well-being of the average person. It annoys me instantly, that these vehicles, so capable of protecting life were left locked in here while everyone out there got chomped and killed. Even the bank itself is like a fortress with one rear back door that looks like it belongs on some hidden American mountain base.

  I shake my head to rid the excess drops falling from my hair and see Roy shaking his head as he motions the vehicles are all locked and he turns to face the back of the bank as I walk over to him.

  ‘Keys’ll be in there,’ he says.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I take in the sight of the thick walls, the barred windows and the solid metal featureless door that is devoid of anything to attach a chain to, ‘Dave,’ I call him over and the others, apart from Blowers and the younger lot outside the gates, all walk over to me and Roy, ‘can we blow that door?’

  He shakes his head, ‘no, Mr Howie, we need shape charges for a door like that.’

  ‘Ram it then?’ I suggest, ‘like I did with that wall in the munitions factory…’

  ‘We could,’ Roy says hesitantly, ‘but do we want to risk damaging the Saxon?’

  ‘Not really, what else do you suggest?’

  ‘Find something else,’ he says, ‘like a truck and use that.’

  ‘Could do,’ I reply.

  ‘Sledge hammers,’ Clarence says, ‘we’ll beat the wall out round the door.’

  ‘Can we blow a car up?’ I ask, ‘you know, like park it by the door and set fire to the tank…would that do it?’

  ‘The blast wouldn’t be enough,’ Dave says.

  ‘Sledge hammers,’ Clarence says again, ‘there’ll be a diy store round here somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe there’s roof access, like a skylight,’ Roy says, ‘Mo Mo could get up and try and find a way in, if we get him some rope he could climb down on the inside.’

  ‘If we’re getting rope we might as well get sledge hammers,’ Clarence says.

  ‘We’ve got rope,’ Roy says, ‘in the cupboards in the back.’

  ‘Mind out,’ Paula calls as the Saxon starts edging forward to turn further into the yard.

  We step aside without giving it any thought, ‘not a bad idea for Mo Mo,’ I say to the men standing round me as we stare at the back of the bank like builders sizing a job up, ‘they would have been relying on alarms to protect any skylight…’

  ‘Er, who is driving the Saxon?’ Clarence asks as it reverses past us. We all watch as the front draws level with Marcy behind the wheel leaning out the door as Paula guides her back, ‘what are they doing?’ He adds with a frown.

  ‘Fuck knows,’ I say as Paula shouts for Marcy to stop. She gets to the back doors and starts pulling the thick chain free, ‘what on earth?’

  ‘There’s nothing on the door to attach it to,’ Clarence says.

  Holding the hooked end of the chain, Paula drags it over to the back wall of the bank and reaches up to hook it through the bars on the window. With the other end already attached to the Saxon she gives a thumbs up as Marcy pulls away gently to lift the chain off the ground then punches forward. A wrench of metal, a dull thud and the whole barred section pops free of the window frame and clatters noisily to the ground as Marcy brings the Saxon to a stop, ‘did it work?’ She asks jumping down.

  ‘Perfect,’ Paula shouts, ‘get Mo in.’

  ‘Mo Mo,’ Marcy shouts, ‘can we borrow you please.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ he runs in and straight towards her, ‘what’s up?’

  ‘Can you get in that window?’ Marcy asks pointing at the now unbarred window.

  ‘Yeah,’ he slings his rifle and scouts round for a second before finding a lump of concrete on the ground. He hefts it up, stalks at the window and throws it up and through the glass that shatters in the frame then using the butt of his rifle he reaches up and rakes the glass out, ‘you want that door open?’ He asks Paula pointing at the solid metal door.

  ‘Yes please,’ she says.

  He gets up and over the frame, pauses to look then drops down out of sight. Less than a minute later the solid metal door swings outwards and he strolls out, ‘anything else?’

  ‘You’re a star, Mo,’ Paula smiles at him, ‘thank you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mo,’ Marcy beams at him as he jogs past towards the gates.

  ‘Well,’ Roy breaks our stunned silence, ‘it appears the bank is now open.’

  ‘We should just go back to the hotel and leave them to it,’ I reply.

  ‘Why are you just standing there?’ Paula calls over, ‘I do not want to hang about in the pouring bloody rain…’

  It stops raining with a suddenness that stuns us all. Not a petering off or a reduction in flow of water falling from the sky but an abrupt finish as though a tap has been turned or a button pressed.

  ‘It’s stopped raining,’ Cookey shouts from the street.

  ‘Are you God?’ I ask Paula with sudden deep suspicion.

  ‘Not God,’ she says with a look at the sky, ‘just godlike,’ she adds with a grin, ‘couldn’t have timed that any better really.’

  The reduction in noise is weird too. That incessant drumming sound now gone and only the individual noises of water pouring from roofs and flat surfaces left.

  ‘Oh wow,’ Marcy says at the first shaft of sunlight streaming through the rapidly thinning cloud. A thick beam that seems to glisten and glitter as it strikes the ground, then more appear as the sun’s rays gradually get through. Like bars of light and a visual display playing out all around us.

  ‘The sun’s coming out,’ Cookey shouts from the street.

  I’ve never seen anything like it. A real tangible changing of the weather happening right in front of our eyes. It’s always bloody raining in England so that wasn’t altogether weird, the force and volume was strange but not the actuality of rain. But to see and hear the rain end and then the rays of sun peeking through and then growing in number is like something from a movie.

  ‘Keys then,’ I say quietly and stare around at the glinting sunlight reflecting off the puddled standing water.

  ‘Yes,’ Roy says equally as muted, ‘I’ll get them.’

  Dave goes with him, the only one of us not seemingly stunned at the striking change happening around us.

  ‘I’ll check the street,’ I say and move round the Saxon and through the broken gates, ‘everything okay?’ I ask on seeing the group outside fanned out with rifles raised and aimed so all angles are covered.

  ‘Fucking weird,’ Nick mutters, ‘weird as fuck.’

  ‘You got a smoke, mate?’

  ‘Sure,’ he lowers his rifle and drags the packet from a pocket.

  ‘It’s so quiet now,’ Charlie says from a few metres away, ‘it’s beautiful.’

  ‘What is?’ I ask turning round to face her.

  ‘All the waterfalls, listen,’ she turns to look at me and Nick as we stay motionless and pick out the individual sounds of water pouring from the roofs. Some thick and they sound like bath water, others are spraying and pattering gently. More further away and she’s right, it’s like listening to a hundred waterfalls all at different tempos and speeds.

  ‘Makes me need a piss,’ Blinky states.

  ‘Charming,’ Charlie replies.

  I light the smoke and stare up at the street, at the windows of the shops and doorways and the hundreds of places they could be hiding in or watching us from, as that thought hits so does the sensation of being watched grows and creeps up my spine. Nick pauses with his hand about to put the cigarette back in his mouth, his eyes wide and staring first at the ground then up and about.

  I look round for Meredith and spot her off to one side near Cookey. She’s standing still too, with her ears pricked and her alert eyes flicking
around the view.

  ‘Mo,’ Nick asks softly, ‘you feeling that?’

  ‘Fuck yeah,’ he whispers back as I cast a questioning look at Nick, ‘they’s here somewhere,’ Mo adds.

  ‘Do what?’ I ask Nick and glance at Mo Mo.

  ‘He did it yesterday,’ Nick says in a soft voice, ‘right before they attacked…before any of us heard anything…in the square and again at that house…’

  ‘Did what?’ I ask.

  ‘Kinda reacted,’ Nick says with a shrug, ‘like he knew they were coming.’

  ‘Mo? Seriously?’

  ‘He did,’ Blowers calls over just as softly, ‘sorry, Mr Howie, I forgot to say…’

  ‘Yeah me too,’ Nick says with a wince, ‘sorry.’

  ‘No it’s fine, Mo? Is that right?’

  ‘Dunno, Mr Howie,’ he says, ‘like…s’weird but…like…a feeling, you get me?’

  ‘Meredith seems okay,’ Cookey says while looking at the dog.

  ‘You said she can smell them,’ Charlie says, ‘this water will wash the smells away terribly so she might not be able to pick the scent up…’

  ‘Will it terribly?’ Cookey asks.

  Meredith is our best way of having advance warning and Charlie’s words hit home with a realisation that they could be anywhere in this street watching us. ‘Stay alert,’ I walk back through the gates and motion for Dave to come over, ‘they’re in the street somewhere,’ I whisper when he gets close, ‘can feel it but Meredith can’t smell them…’

  ‘The water will ruin the scent.’