by RR Haywood
‘They both fire arrows,’ Blinky says.
‘They fire bolts, not arrows,’ Roy says with a slow shake of his head as though this is the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard.
‘Look like arrows, sharp and pointy.’
‘My sword is sharp and pointy, is that an arrow?’
‘So’s his dick,’ she points at Cookey and shrugs.
‘What?’ Cookey sputters, ‘what did you fucking say?’
‘And back to the matter at hand,’ I say, ‘the huge pile of undead bodies pretending to be dead…’
‘They’re not piled,’ Marcy says, ‘more like spread out.’
‘Arranged,’ Paula says, ‘they look arranged.’
‘Either bloody way it’s creepy as hell…do you think they were trying to trick us?’
‘No! Really?’ Marcy looks at me aghast, ‘the dirty rotters.’
‘Very funny.’
‘What will they think of next?’
‘My dick is not sharp and pointy.’
‘So is.’
‘Right, everyone start shooting something,’ I lift my rifle and aim at the closest head of a body within the carpet of undead. A second later and every gun is firing with single shots that boom into the quiet air. Skulls bursting apart sending fragments of bone pluming into the air with grey streaks of brain mixed into the pink and white colours.
A couple more seconds and they rise up going from prone to standing in one synchronised motion and suddenly the plaza is full of voices howling. They charge but they left it too late. We’d already killed loads and started with the closest bodies so the ones rising up have further to travel and have to navigate the obstacles of the corpses ahead of them.
Burst firing with sustained rounds being laid down and it’s like shooting fish in a barrel, or zombies in a plaza. Twelve rifles firing and with each magazine holding thirty rounds it means we unload three hundred and sixty bullets into that plaza at a fire rate of over six hundred rounds per minute.
‘MAGAZINE,’ Blinky moves fast, ripping the old one out and remembering to pocket it before ramming the new one in.
They shout out in turn as they change magazine and our small line dominates their mass. Intelligence and preparation over sheer weight of numbers. They charge like the cavalry of the light brigade into the Russian guns that withered them remorselessly, and like those poor soldiers so long ago, these too are driven by an order than cannot be disobeyed and ultimately leads to their deaths.
It’s not a battle but a slaughter and it’s exactly what we came here to do. Cull the numbers, reduce the threat and be seen doing it. We fire and fire. Fingers holding triggers as hot lead spews deep into fleshy bodies and sends human forms spinning and slamming down. They howl and keep coming but we’ve done our job and made sure we had sufficient spare magazines and we change, make ready and continue to fire until the last few remain.
I take aim on a female off to one side and blink as she drops down with a stick poking out of her head. Another one a few feet away from her gets struck by an arrow next.
‘Cease fire,’ I call out, ‘all yours, Roy.’
‘Thanks,’ he aims and fires with a speed that increases the more he does. His left hand holding a bunch of arrows ready while he grips the frame of the bow. His right hand pulling, loosing and deftly taking the next from his left hand before repeating the action. Arrows sail true, straight and silent and each one finds the target with a perfect shot.
We all watch and truth be told, I could watch Roy doing this all day long. The culmination of years of dedication and obsessive hard work. The speed is incredible. The rifles could never be matched for speed of fire rate but my god it’s bloody good.
The arrows are so fast it’s impossible to track them with the eye as they fly through the air and no sooner have I gained sight of the one that just landed and another one is in the air. The distance is long and because of the distance and speed of Roy’s movements he even gets two in the air at the same time. One just landing with one just leaving. A look of serene contemplation on his face. Not overly focussed or furrowed with concentration but calm and peaceful. Paula is mesmerised by him, we all are. He can be such an annoying prick sometimes but right now every flaw of his character is forgiven for being able to do something so special and extraordinary.
He releases the final arrow, exhales slowly and lowers the bow and never before have I seen someone so perfectly composed within themselves. Except it doesn't last. Perfection can never last. With the bow lowered and no more arrows to be fired so the reality of the world comes flooding back and that subtle change spreads across his face and he twists gently to the side with a grimace, ‘think I pulled something,’ he mutters and the Roy we know is back.
‘You left three,’ Blowers says and I look round in surprise to see three still coming across the plaza.
‘For the dog,’ Roy says as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Blowers makes to reply with a glare but gets cut off by Blinky bending double to vomit on the ground with a loud retching noise.
‘Fuck that was good,’ she says standing upright and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, ‘like totally fucking awesome.’
Nick reaches down to gently push the dog and she bounds away, streaking across the plaza and using a downed body to gain height as she leaps high and locks her jaws on the face of the first one she reaches. A vicious rag as she drops and it’s done. One dead and the other two are dispatched with the same brutal efficiency and as the last one is killed so she turns round and starts working through the corpses to kill the crawlers.
‘Know what,’ I announce proudly, ‘that was our first attack. The first time we’ve gone after them…all went rather well if I say so myself.’
‘Very good,’ Clarence booms with a grin as he looks round the plaza, ‘happy with that.’
‘Bit weird they were all lying down though,’ Paula says thoughtfully, ‘but having said that we’ve still killed a couple of hundred by the looks of it.’
‘And it’s still early,’ I reply, ‘this could be a good day. Where we going next? Anyone got any suggestions or are we doing the random thing?’
‘Next town?’ Clarence suggests as he replaces his magazine, ‘might as well.’
‘That’s not random,’ Paula says, ‘and we’ll get caught out if we do it like that.’
‘Okay then, we go straight through the next town and attack the one after that,’ I say, ‘then we find another one like that and eventually come back for the ones we didn’t do.’
‘Perfect,’ Clarence says.
‘Everyone happy?’ I look round at the faces all nodding amiably, ‘Reginald still in Roy’s van?’
‘He is,’ Marcy says with a frown.
‘Ah, leave him alone. He can stay there if he wants. Load up and we’ll move out.’
‘Water,’ Dave says dully, ‘you are all losing fluids in this humidity. Take water on now.’
‘You heard the man,’ I say cheerily, ‘I think we should have some music on the way to the next one, Cookey? Care to sort us out?’
Six
He frets but then he’s always fretted. He worries too, but then he’s always worried. He’s scared and that would also be quite normal if the type of fear he was feeling was the same type of fear he used to feel, only it isn’t. This is a different fear and one that is steadily growing into a consuming terror and just when he thinks the pinnacle of fear has been reached it gets worse and stronger and deeper until his stomach tightens into a ball of knots that flips and sinks.
His hands tremble. His knees knock together. Eyes darting from left to right, up and down. He rubs the back of his neck then his face as his body desperately tries to ease the tension. Constantly adjusting position and twitching at the uncomfortable sensation of the clothes he is so unused to wearing and his hands keep straying to the base of his neck to adjust and fiddle with the tie knot that isn’t there.
He takes his glasses off and wipes the lenses
before patting his sweaty face. The inside of the van is cooler than outside and Roy was nice enough to run the air conditioning but now with the van stationary the air conditioning has shut off and the temperature is creeping up.
It was different when he was turned. His natural fear of everything was still there but it was suppressed to a much lesser degree, and the control exerted over his mind was more powerful than the unique characteristics that made Reginald the person he was.
He should feel angry and embittered against Marcy for turning him and for everything that happened after but that same intellect that he prides himself on also makes the connection of knowledge that it was the infection working through Marcy. Marcy was the manifestation of the virus and not the cause. She was as much a tool as he was, as Darren was, as they all are. The infection is a hive mind of collective intelligence and it’s that fact that strikes the greatest fear in Reginald. Howie can kill them now but that collective intelligence is growing by the day.
The human mind is a powerful instrument of evolution and still in its infancy of growth. The exceptional will become the norm and that excellence will continue to forge a path into the future until their race reaches the whole point of existence. What one can do all can do, they just don’t know how to yet. Terrence Tao was formally recognised as the most intelligent person in the world with an IQ of two hundred and thirty in comparison to an average of one hundred and fifteen. Reginald knows that, given time, mankind would evolve to an average of two hundred and thirty and the exceptional will still be leaps ahead, but that would take time, hundreds of years. The rate the infection has shown is equivalent to a caveman becoming a tax inspector within a week and if that growth continues how long will it be until the tax inspector becomes Terrence Tao? What then? Howie can fight human forms but he cannot fight something he cannot understand, something that can outthink his every move.
He watches the monitor on the desk in the rear of the armoured transit van and that gnawing growing fear increases again. The cameras fitted in the light clusters give a commanding view of the plaza and of the bodies all lying prone and that connection that takes the team so many minutes to make is made almost instantly by Reginald. They are pretending. They are not dead but pretending. A clumsy, paltry and stupid thing to do but an act that, in the manner of what it represents, is wholly frightening. The infection has taken hundreds of host bodies and rather than attacking full on it has made them hide in plain sight. Play dead. A trick used by prey and predator alike. Bait. Lure the victim. An idea formed and executed and one that shows that the infection can grasp complex trains of thought.
He rubs his face at the danger being presented and the time it takes for the team to realise the trick seems to stretch for eons until Charlie makes the connection then all eyes are down and Roy starts firing his arrows into them. Whimpering into his hand Reginald watches as Howie fires first followed by everyone else and suddenly the air is once again filled with the thunderous roar of assault rifles that is soon matched by the howl of the undead as they rise and charge.
Every shot seems to invoke a wince. Every step closer the undead take seems to increase that fear and then it’s over
and the silence that follows is broken by the raucous voices of the team celebrating a false victory.
Don’t they know what’s happening? Don’t they realise the folly of their actions? Ignoring the next town to attack the one after is not a random selection. It is a choice made by the human mind which the infection is learning to understand and this, this ham-fisted attempt at trickery by playing dead is laughable now but what it represents is terrifying in suggestion.
‘…and it was a good start but what on earth were they doing?’ Paula says getting into the front of the vehicle mid-conversation with Roy.
‘Doing? I don’t think they were doing anything,’ Roy replies.
‘Playing dead? Like that would fool us,’ she scoffs with a glance at the mangled bodies in the plaza, ‘Reginald, are you okay?’ She twists round in her seat to look through the open access door to the rear, ‘you must be hot in there, we’ll put the air-con on…Roy, can you put the air-con on for Reginald, he looks very hot.’
‘Will do,’ Roy says obligingly, ‘did you watch through the cameras, Reginald?’
‘Yes, yes I did.’
‘It’s a top system they’ve put in here, the cameras must be wide angled lenses and high definition too.’
‘Yes, yes very clear.’
‘They were playing dead.’
‘Yes, I saw that,’ Reginald says politely.
‘God knows what that was all about but Howie’s plan is working so far…I think we must have killed a couple of hundred right there.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Well, we’re skipping the next town and hitting the one after that…to keep it random.’
‘Yes, indeed. I heard that.’
‘Oh did you. I wasn’t sure if you heard it and I wanted to keep you in the loop.’
‘Thank you, Roy but…’ Reginald falters, he was about to say it, to voice his concerns but what’s the point? He can’t fight. He can’t shoot or wield an axe or stab with a knife. What right does he have to play a part in the decision making process.
‘But what?’ Paula asks in that overly kind voice that sends a ripple of irritation through Reginald at the perception of being patronised and treated like a child.
‘Nothing,’ he says keeping his tone polite and clipped.
‘Sure?’
‘Yes, yes I am sure, thank you, Paula.’
‘Okay, do you want some water?’
‘I er…I have water, thank you, Paula.’
‘Make sure you drink plenty, it’s so hot and humid today. Are you hungry?’
‘No, not hungry. Thank you, Paula.’
‘If you need anything just say.’
‘Of course, indeed. Yes, yes I will be sure to say something.’
She turns away as Roy pulls the vehicle into the slipstream of the Saxon as they navigate the roads out of the town and back onto the main road towards the next. He thinks back to the morning and the map laid out on the table. Every symbol on the map represented a defining feature of the landscape. A town. A forest. A road. A lake. A village. The coast line. The gradient of the land. Campsites. Rivers. Streams. Footpaths. Bridleways. Map reading is a science, not an art. Maps are made by experts devoted to their profession and the fact the rest of the group paid such little attention to the map is staggeringly incompetent to Reginald. Every choice, every decision could mean the end to their lives. What kind of planning was it to glance at a map and stab the end of your finger at green and grey splodges and work out the future of mankind from that?
What scale was the map? A scale of 1:50000 would mean each centimetre on the map represents 500 metres in real life which does not leave a lot of space for the finer and finite details to be shown. Clarence was in the army, Dave too. Why didn’t they pay attention to those facts? They must have studied map reading as part of their training, surely? No. They were soldiers and effectively they are the modern day equivalent to the enlisted man, the generalised infantry sent to do the dirty work at the front line. The officers would be the ones taught to make sure of the scale maps and work out the defining features of the locality to assist and aid in their campaigns.
Oh god. What were they doing? What were they thinking? The first town attacked would always have been a safe venture, well, as safe a venture as attacking hordes of deranged virus riddled monsters could be. The second will also be a safe venture. Howie’s fighting skills and his ability to kill and walk away unscathed will see him and the rest through. The third might be lucky but by the fourth, the fifth…maybe the sixth they’ll be outwitted, outmanoeuvred and out-planned.
Why didn’t they bring the maps with them? Did they bring the maps with them? He turns round ready to call out the question to Roy and Paula in the front then stops before any sounds can be uttered. Who is he to ask for maps? He plays no part
in this group but is merely tagging along as, for the present, it is far safer to be with them than without them. That, however, will end very soon. That safety will be over within a few hours.
His hands tremble as his body floods with fear inducing chemicals. It’s like his blood is running cold in his veins. Like his stomach is flipping and churning. It’s so hot in here too, oppressive and sticky. His hands go to adjust his tie knot that isn’t there anymore. On the monitor he watches the quadrant split screen display from the cameras fitted on all four corners of the vehicle. Water spraying against the front from the flooded roads and deep puddles they power through. The Saxon glimpsed through the streaks in front of them. At the rear the wake left and the sides of the road, hedges, lanes and trees.
‘Next town coming up,’ Marcy’s amplified voice fills the air.
‘Are we still going through?’ Roy asks Paula, ‘ask Marcy to ask Howie if we’re still going through to the next town.’
‘Marcy…’
‘No names!’
‘Oh for god’s sake, Roy. I don’t think it makes any difference now.’
‘But they could be listening to us.’
‘And what if they are? They don’t know where we are or what we’re doing…Marcy, Are we still going straight through to the next town?’
‘Now they know we’re going straight through this town,’ Roy says with a groan, ‘you’re giving our plan away.’
‘I am not giving our plan away, Roy. They don’t know what town we are at or…’
‘Of course they do! They saw us leave the last town and could be watching us right now.’
‘Then what….’
‘Paula, Howie said yes.’
‘Then what should I have said?’ Paula asks Roy.
‘You should have just asked if we were sticking to the original plan?’
‘Right, yes but you asked me to ask if we were going straight through the next town so I just repeated what you asked me to say…’
‘Paula? You there?’
‘Yes still here, straight through. Got it.’