The Undead Day Eighteen

by RR Haywood

  Roy was right. It could be listening and it could have seen the direction they took and it could be watching them right now. All it would take would be to place individuals in key places on the main routes to monitor the roads. Again Reginald forces himself to suppress his natural instinct of saying something with the belief that he doesn't belong here and therefore has no right to impart his views.

  Through the monitor he watches the town come into view as Paula and Roy descend into a bickering match over what should have been said and the fact that Roy told Paula to say something and she just did as asked and Roy saying that Paula should not have taken it literally. Their voices fade into the background noise of the engine and the tyres on the surface of the road. Of water being sprayed and the view on the monitors. Streets and junctions that go past. Houses and shops. Cars parked up and signs of storm damage and looting everywhere. Bodies too. Dead and decomposing and either slumped in festering mounds or floating in the murky flood water which is exactly what they will all be by the end of this day, well the ones that cannot be turned that is. Howie, Blowers, Cookey, Marcy and himself for sure. The rest will be bitten and if they don’t turn they will be torn limb from limb. Why did he turn then turn back? Howie is right, Marcy is the key to that. It was Marcy that turned him and the variant of the virus that she passed that infected Reginald. That variant was different to the main as it turned them and now it is going. Similar to Lani who was turned but recovered then eventually succumbed. Which also means that Lani did not rid her own body of the infection but carried it, which in turn means by default that he and Marcy and both carriers and could also succumb. That thought extrapolates as he once more thinks through the whole of the sequence of events. Howie will be a carrier. Blowers and Cookey and Reginald determines that more members of this group will also show immunity while still being carriers.

  That train of thought shifts gear until he’s back at the same question that continues to dog his mind. Why are they together? How does a group of seemingly unconnected people find each other and gain that connection while being in an apparent very low percentage of the population that is immune to the virus. Why them? Why did they find each other?

  Science is one thing. The science of the infection. The virology of the transmission and the way it affects each person. It’s different to anything ever known but yet not totally alien. There are plenty of viruses that act as parasitical entities in the way they infect a host body, and science could ultimately show how a virus could gain a conscious and awareness of life. What science cannot answer is how the bloody hell a bunch of crazy strangers all find each other amidst the carnage of the world falling apart, unless of course, that is a random act and one of them is the primary host for the variant gene within the infection that causes them to be immune.

  The scenery passing by on the monitor causes an almost trance-like state that eases the troubles in his mind to allow the natural thought processes to flourish and meander. So many problems, so many things he thinks about but with the drone of the engine and the low voices of Paula and Roy in the background and the live feed on the monitor all working together so his mind starts to prioritise them into matters of urgency and the first priority is staying alive. Which will end if Howie continues on this same course of conduct.

  ‘Paula, it looks like we’re coming up to something…’

  Marcy’s voice filling the van and it jars him back to the present. The second township is coming up.

  ‘Looks like a village,’ Marcy adds, ‘we’re slowing down…Howie said to shout if you see any movement.’

  ‘Yep, will do,’ Paula replies, ‘Reginald, can you watch the monitor for movement.’

  ‘Indeed I will,’ Reginald says quickly, too quickly.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Paula asks leaning round to stare into the back.

  ‘Yes fine,’ Reginald says trying to give a tight smile, ‘all good back here,’ he adds with a nonchalant wave followed by a nonchalant nod and instantly curses himself for the strange look he gets in return.

  On the monitor he stares blankly at the village coming into view. A main road running through a selection of tea gardens complete with thatched roofs and olde worlde signs displaying hand-crafted teddy bears and dolls. A chintzy craft village of stereotypical wares being peddled under the guise of everything being homemade and the mere suggestion makes Reginald lean away from the monitor as though the tiny increase in distance might prevent the tackiness from touching him. Homemade? Who wants homemade? Reginald certainly doesn't want anything homemade. Reginald hates anything with the label homemade. Goods should be designed, crafted and engineered by professionals in a professional workplace, not some overweight stay at home mum with a penchant for jams and keeping bees with her brood of snotty nosed children poking their bogey covered fingers into every bowl and jar. God no! The thought of it makes him wince and groan in disgust and Teddy Bears? They should be made in factories by persons presented by a union and paid a decent wage with healthcare benefits, not knocked up by some doddery old codger from the WI with a needle and thread. And who has thatched cottages these days? The whole ambience is one of a trite play on the senses that somehow, because the wares are made by bogey covered children and half-blind WI women under thatched roofs that it’s all more innocent and clean.

  Thatched cottages are not renowned for their energy conservation and are no match for modern materials constructed by professionals. The energy bills must have been huge and they probably all run off coal and log burners which only add to the gases pumped into the environment let alone the whole argument of fossil fuels being depleted but hey, it’s okay because everything is homemade so just ignore the fact the wood is probably stolen by some little oik running about with a chainsaw.

  ‘Oh it does,’ Marcy’s voice fills the van in reply to a comment made by Paula, ‘it looks so…so…what’s the word? Yes twee! Charlie said it looks twee…’

  And what on earth is happening to Marcy? She has gone from a woman possessed with a belief of changing the world by showing what the infection can be used for to running about in Howie’s shadow shouting that everything looks twee. Yes, admittedly, Marcy was also once a genocidal maniac tearing whole streets apart with a blood lust that would make Genghis Khan vomit but nevertheless, she was a somebody doing an important thing and it was those experiences that shaped her into the woman he chose to follow even when their bodies were purging the infection. Even when his mind became wholly his own again he chose to stay with Marcy as she was driven full of determination to use those same experiences and herself for that matter, to rid the infection as it has become to be known. Leaving Marcy was just not an option.

  Oh god they’re here, wherever here is. The vehicles have stopped and everyone is piling out with their weapons held up and aimed ready. Reginald watches them on the monitor. At the way they all move and scan the area, at the supreme confidence they exude. Even the two new girls, Charlie and Blinky, or Patricia as Dave so rightly refers to her, even they now match the others in the way they step and turn. They do look good. That is without question. They look tough and capable and if Reginald were trapped in a bad place it would be exactly people like this he would want coming to rescue him. Even that monstrous dog behaves differently to any dog Reginald has ever known. Not that he has known many dogs. Filthy things always licking their own orifices and defecating in public, and they always seem to sense his fear of them too which in turn makes them suspicious of him which in turn makes him more fearful of them.

  The ever running monologue of Reginald’s thoughts end abruptly as, on the monitor, he watches the first of the infected run from the nearby houses. Shouts are given and shots are fired.

  With a commanding view of all four corners, Reginald tracks the entry points as they appear in ones and twos running from doors, buildings, vaulting low walls, navigating tight turns and running flat out to their certain death.

  Two from the left and through the maelstrom of noise Reginald m
atches the sounds of their voices to the image seen on the display. A man and woman both old and frail but running as though they were teenagers. A few seconds later and another two from further up come bursting out into the street. The other side of the road, two more and a few seconds later another one appears.

  He leans forward staring intently at the figures as they appear and then get gunned down. There’s not enough of them to even suggest a threat to Howie and the group but seemingly the noise of the firefight draws more, but…but no. Something. What? He scans the four images and for the first time the gunshots outside don’t make him wince. He is absorbed with a prickling notion of something…something not right. Yes! That’s it. It seems as though the noise of the firefight is drawing them out but it looks staged. The infected always mass together either in big hordes or smaller groups. These are all separated into couples or singles and coming from all different direction but actually from the same two primary sources. There is only one main road through this village and the buildings on either side pretty much form the whole of the village. Why would they be separated and split on both sides of the road? They wouldn’t be. They have been prepared and were waiting. Yes, yes that’s right. The more he thinks it the more apparent and obvious it becomes.

  Are they probing? If not probing then what is the purpose? An old man running from the same garden that two came from a few minutes ago. Now two more old people from two gardens up from the last entry point. All of them being gunned down and shot to bits by the staggering fire rate of the assault rifles outside. Voices shouting magazine and orders given to watch this side, look up to the top, two more coming from that direction.

  Then it’s over and the last one falls as Meredith is released to hunt through the bodies for any that still live or make noise.

  What does it mean? What is the reason? Maybe this was the organic positions of the infected persons at the point of arrival by the two vehicles but that goes against everything they have encountered so far. Reginald was never turned in the true sense of the meaning but he was present enough to know they have an instinct to gather and mass collectively so that reason can be instantly discounted. What else? Probing? No. That does not seem right. The infection knows how many they have and what weapons they use. There would be no reason or objective gained by doing that. The infection will know the inside leg measurement of every person within this group by now, including that bloody dog.

  No. There must be another reason. Think Reginald think, use the intelligence you were gifted with and think. Perhaps it was staged solely for the appearance of the event. Would it do that? It certainly looked staged. Almost as though Howie was turning up and the infection had to provide some baddies to kill so it threw them out in little groups to give Howie something to shoot at. A ridiculous notion and it makes Reginald snort quietly with a minute shake of his head as the idea is disregarded as quickly as it was formed.

  No. There was a reason but…or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe they were just chasing some other survivor and they ended up all over the place just as the two vans arrived. No conspiracy, no reason, just a natural order of events based on a myriad of variables too vast to calculate, and anyway, what would he gain from even thinking it was staged? He’s not part of this group but tagging along, an observer, a coward hiding in the back of an armoured van and letting those more capable defend his life and liberty.

  Oh come on, Reginald. You know it was staged. You had a completely different view to those engaged in the combat. Listen to them now cheering and guessing at how many bodies they culled. Lighting cigarettes and talking about finding more blasted coffee. They were doing the actual killing and the reason you want to see something strange is so you can be a part of the group to self-justify the reason for your presence. He leans back and tries to adjust the tie knot that isn’t there before huffing with frustration. Hot again with the air conditioning off. Should he have some water? If he drinks more water he will need a toilet break before too long and the last thing he wants to do is ask for a toilet break and be subjected to urinating in front of the other men.

  It was staged. He leans forward and stares at the monitor again while that idea, that silly notion of the infection sending them out so Howie would have something to shoot at refuses to go away. Perhaps that exact idea is silly but still, it certainly did appear like that. In the town where they found this armoured van Howie was shouting at the infected person that they were going to the next town and when they arrived the infected persons were all lying down. Then they skipped a town to hit the next one along, in this case the chintzy homemade sickeningly sweet bogey filled jam jar awful thatched tea garden village.

  ‘Next?’ The unmistakable tones of Clarence from outside and this time, instead of fretting into his hands, Reginald pays attention and stares at the sealed rear door.

  ‘Dunno,’ Howie says, ‘where you reckon? Did anyone bring that map? Paula? You’re in charge of shit like that.’

  ‘Me? I’m the personnel manager. One of the army blokes should have brought the map.’

  ‘Ah well, sod it. We’d only look at the green and grey splodges anyway. Well, we can go back to that one we went through or…’

  ‘It was very flooded,’ Roy interrupts, ‘the one we went through I mean.’

  ‘Yeah that’s true,’ Howie says wistfully and no doubt drawing on his cigarette. Reginald checks the monitor and nods in satisfaction at seeing Howie inhaling, ‘so…er…miss one again? Everyone up for that?’

  God no. That’s the worst thing to do. That is not a plan but leap-frogging and something a child could work out.

  ‘Yeah why not,’ one of the lads says, Blowers maybe?

  ‘Isn’t that a bit samey?’ Paula asks as Reginald breathes a sigh of relief.

  ‘Only because we know we’re doing it,’ Marcy says as Reginald goes back into panic mode, ‘samey to us but will it work out the plan that quickly?’

  Yes. Yes it will. God yes it will. Somebody say something.

  ‘Yeah fine,’ Paula says, ‘I’m not bothered…can we stop for a break after the next one though. This heat is so draining.’

  ‘Isn’t it,’ Charlie says in reply, ‘I can’t stop sweating.’

  ‘My knickers keep going up my arse crack,’ Blinky informs the group.

  He should say something. Interrupt them before they make the decision and move out. They are pumped up from the fight and not thinking clearly but, but he can’t say anything. It was yesterday that did it. In that blasted village of Finkton and having to run for miles and miles then cower on the stairs while everyone else did the fighting. Completely out of his depth and therefore the exclusion of capability extends to the self-imposed social exclusion also and the firm belief that he is not one of them, therefore he has no right to say anything and his already depleting pride does not wish to be damaged any further. Oh they would listen, he knows they would, but they would do it with overly earnest expressions and soft patronising voices before choosing to do what they want anyway.

  Maybe he could stay here? This village has just been cleansed of the infected. He could find a nice pretty thatched cottage and use the fossil fuel burners to stay warm while eating the bogey infested jams and spreads. An absurd idea and Reginald knows full well that he would perish from fright during the first period of darkness. He is not a man to be alone, but then staying with this group means certain death. What to do? The turmoil of the situation frays the edges of his already frayed nerves and he sinks once again into a state of twitches, trembles and trying to adjust the tie knot that isn’t there.

  The chatter outside ends as the group disperse back to their chosen vehicles with the promise of a coffee break after the next attack. Listening to the cheery calls and confidence only serves to magnify the conflict within him and give water to the seed of doubt that he is wrong. Except he isn’t wrong. He can’t be wrong. Maybe he is wrong. Is he wrong? Am I wrong? I mean they’ve fought battles ever since this began and they’ve only got stronger and f
aster. Maybe this is the right thing to do and the fears I am feeling are justified but not necessary. Howie is no fool. Clarence is highly experienced and Dave is an exceptional human being, they are all exceptional human beings so yes, I am being fretful for the sake of it.

  For a few minutes he works hard to settle the anxiety and closing his eyes he draws a long breath in through his nose before slowly exhaling from his mouth. Breathe in. Breathe out. Everything is fine. Breathe in. Breathe out. Howie knows what he is doing. Inhale. Exhale. I am always anxious and my current anxious state is a by-product of the extreme events we are experiencing. These people are protecting my life and for that I should be thankful and do what little I can. I will watch the monitors and try my hardest not to be so cowardly.

  His heart rate eases. The immediacy of the panic abates just enough for him to open his eyes and look to the monitor. Roy and Paula in the front chatting animatedly and the air temperature starts to reduce with the beautiful cooling air blowing into the back. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. They know what they are doing and the derring-do attitude they display is what has kept them alive for so long. That daring confrontational aggression and fortune favours the brave, but then fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Ah but if there were no fools there would be no wise men. Yes that is true but they have the courage of their convictions and the only thing to fear is fear itself and these people really know what they are doing but then a little knowledge is a dangerous thing and you don’t know what you don’t know. They think they are being random but the predictability is clear within the path they have chosen.

  ‘Reginald, are you okay?’

  The question snaps his head up as he twists round to face Paula leaning through the doorway.

  ‘Reginald?’ She asks again with that concern dripping from her voice.

  ‘Fine,’ he says curtly, ‘I am fine. Thank you.’

  ‘Well okay,’ she says as though clearly not believing he is okay, ‘one more then we’re stopping for a break.’