The Undead Day Eighteen

by RR Haywood

  ‘You’re gallant you are,’ Cookey says to Mo with a snigger.

  ‘What’s gallant mean?’ Mo Mo asks, ‘is that like a bad thing?’

  ‘Bad as fuck mate,’ Nick says, ‘Charlie effectively said you’re a wanker.’

  ‘I did no such thing,’ Charlie says leaning over the body and trying to grasp the curtain folds, ‘it means you were very polite and nice…knights of old times were said to be gallant. It is a very manly trait.’

  Mo Mo’s eyebrows lift at the realisation of the compliment and I swear he floats up off the floor again.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear…it appears she has no head,’ Charlie says sadly peeking through the curtains and the room erupts in an explosion of laughter.

  ‘She still alive though?’ Blinky asks with delight, ‘kick her foot again.’

  ‘I didn’t know she had no head,’ Charlie sighs, ‘poor love…I wonder where her head is?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ Cookey asks craning forward as Charlie yanks the curtain back, ‘oooh,’ he recoils with a grimace, ‘she been chomped to fuck…’

  ‘Chomped?’ Charlie asks with a puzzled shake of her head.

  ‘Eaten,’ Blowers says, ‘they ate her neck and made her head come off…it’s probably rolled down the other way.’

  ‘Oh,’ Charlie tuts sadly, ‘you poor love,’ she adds.

  ‘Can we get a fucking drink now?’ Blinky asks, ‘I’m so thirsty I’ll be drinking my own piss in a minute.’

  ‘Urgh that’s so gross,’ Cookey wails.

  ‘Not as gross as drinking someone else’s piss,’ she says as they start to file out, ‘if you were on a desert island with another person and had nothing to drink…would you drink your own or the other persons piss?’

  ‘Who is the other person?’ Nick asks.

  ‘Why? Does it matter?’ Blinky asks.

  ‘Well yeah,’ Blowers says, ‘like…I wouldn’t drink Cookey’s piss but someone clean and nice and…’

  ‘Like Charlie?’ Cookey asks.

  ‘Yeah like Charlie.’

  ‘You’d drink Charlie’s piss because she’s pretty?’ Blinky asks stopping in the doorway and glaring back at the lads before shrugging, ‘yeah I would too, Charlie we’re all drinking your piss if we get stuck on a desert island.’

  ‘Okay then,’ Charlie says brightly with a roll of her eyes, ‘well that was an education,’ she adds quietly to me, ‘I am so sorry for the delay I caused.’

  ‘No don’t be silly, you did the right thing.’

  ‘Right thing? What by causing everyone to wait?’

  ‘No by being a human being and taking the time to check first, she might have been alive. None of this is worth it if we don’t do the right thing.’

  ‘You two coming?’ Marcy asks from the door.

  ‘Yep, the lads found the maps,’ I say walking towards her, ‘bet Reggie will be pleased.’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ she says as Charlie passes on to join the others, ‘you were having a nice chat just then.’

  ‘Eh? Oh. There was an old lady behind the counter and we couldn’t tell if she was dead or not because of the curtain but then Charlie pulled it back and her head wasn’t…why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘All weird, like angry. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she says turning away.

  ‘Roy, you do not have diabetes. It’s the heat!’ Paula exclaims with her own angry flushed red face.

  ‘Mr Howie, I have the maps and I really need to explain the folly of your plans.’

  ‘I am thirsty. I am grumpy and I need the toilet. They are all symptoms of diabetes which is a life threatening illness which can be fatal if not treated…’

  ‘The maps, Mr Howie…’

  ‘Clarence, can you get the door to that café open please.’

  I follow in his wake as he strides to the door, adjusts his step once and slams his right foot into the door just below the lock causing it to implode off the hinges and crash into the counter a few feet away. I walk straight in with the rifle half raised. A quick look round and everything looks normal. The air smells stale but normal, apart from the smell of foul milk and foodstuffs that is. The dust on the floor is undisturbed.

  ‘That’ll do me,’ I announce to no one in particular and head to the double sized Coca Cola fridge, open one side and select a can of Orange Tango. It’s too hot. Everything is too hot. I pop the lid, listen to the fizz of the bubbles rushing to the opening and then guzzle the sugary goodness into my mouth. The taste is incredible and almost overpowering. After days of water, tuna, pasta, coffee and baked beans this is divine. Glucose rushing into my bloodstream and an instant surge of energy. My belly reacts too at the carbonated liquid as I gulp the whole thing greedily in one go and release an almighty belch.

  ‘Now that,’ I sigh and discard the empty can to one side, ‘was fucking lovely.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Clarence asks reaching past me to take the same flavour from the display.

  ‘Definitely,’ I reply taking another one.

  ‘Clear?’ Dave asks coming through the broken door.

  ‘Clear enough,’ I reply and watch him disappearing through the door to the kitchen as everyone else piles in, ‘shush now,’ I hold my hand up at the clamouring voices, ‘not a word or I’ll tell Dave you called him a twat.’

  Silence falls. Glorious silence broken only by the shuffle of feet as cans of pop are handed round. Silence broken by ring pulls being opened and the fizz of bubbles. Silence broken by thirsty people lifting cans to gulp the contents and swallow the beautiful stuff down and silence broken by a chorus of belches.

  ‘Clear,’ Dave says with a reproachful look at me.

  ‘Tango?’ I ask him, ‘Orange or Apple?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Apple it is,’ I hand one over to him and quickly raise my finger as Cookey goes to say something, ‘still in quiet time.’

  He nods and finishes his can. A clunk as his hits the floor to join the other ones already discarded.

  Nick heads into the kitchen and I listen as he runs a tap and comes back carrying one bowl for Meredith and another larger bucket half filled with water which he carries to the fridge and starts taking the warm cans to place inside.

  ‘Nice,’ I say and take another drink, ‘and still in quiet time,’ I add before Cookey or Blinky can say anything.

  After finishing the second can I plonk the empty receptacle down on the new bin, that being the floor, and start patting my pockets down as the non-verbalisation of a signal to Nick that I need a cigarette. One appears magically in front of my face which I take and head outside with the other dirty smokers, light the cigarette and poke my head back inside the door, ‘you can talk now.’

  Paula lights up. Blowers and Cookey both light up and join Nick and I as we exhale plumes of tobacco smoke into the air.

  ‘Would anyone like a Tracker bar?’ Charlie asks poking her head out of the door, ‘there’s a basket of them on the counter.’

  ‘Is it thatched?’ Cookey asks.

  ‘Er no,’ Charlie says glancing back into the café, ‘shall I bring them outside? Mr Howie? Are we sitting outside?’

  ‘Yep,’ I reply and drink my can and smoke my cigarette and feel the rush of sugar buzzing through my body.

  ‘Biscuits too?’ Charlie calls from inside, ‘the chocolate bars have melted though.’

  ‘Bring them all out,’ Paula says, ‘lads, do you want to pull those tables together?’

  Three tables are pulled together and chairs arranged round the sides as snack bars and biscuits are brought out with the bucket of cans bobbing in the cold water. Slowly the chairs fill up and I spot the almost hazed look in their eyes from the sugar hit as the thirst abates and we start to cool down. Everyone apart from Dave is red faced and sweating. The toilet inside flushes and a few seconds later Roy appears smiling wryly at Paula.

  ‘Better?’ She asks smiling warmly at him.

 
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘thank you and sorry.’

  ‘Nay bother,’ she says patting the seat next to her, ‘have another can and rot your teeth…I was joking!’ She adds at the look on his face.

  ‘Everyone here?’ I ask.

  ‘Blinky is using the toilet,’ Charlie says.

  ‘In that case, I shall eat a Tracker bar full of fruit and nut goodness to increase my sugar levels even more than the spike they have just experienced, awesome. Anyone want one?’

  ‘Got one,’ Nick says with a mouthful.

  ‘No surprise there,’ Blowers says, ‘gutsy fucker, why aren’t you fat? You should be fat the amount you stuff in your mouth.’

  ‘Good genes.’

  ‘Levi’s?’ Cookey asks, ‘oh that was such a shit joke.’

  ‘All your jokes are shit,’ Blowers says.

  ‘Your willy is covered in shit.’

  ‘Alex!’

  ‘Sorry, Dave.’

  ‘Willy?’ Blowers asks after a few seconds pause.

  ‘Being polite,’ Cookey mutters, ‘hey she’s back,’ he says as Blinky walks out from the café.

  ‘Don’t go in the bog,’ she says, ‘I had a dump and it stinks.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Blinky,’ Paula says.

  ‘Can I ask a serious question?’ Cookey asks.

  ‘No because it won’t be serious,’ Paula replies.

  ‘No, proper serious…like not pissing about.’

  ‘Go on then,’ she sighs.

  ‘You know women,’ he starts.

  ‘Er yeah, I am one,’ she says.

  ‘No no, I mean when women are all together is it true that their periods all come at the same time?’

  ‘What?’ Blowers spits his drink to the side, ‘where did you hear that?’

  ‘Dunno, can’t remember,’ Cookey says.

  ‘Yes it’s true,’ Paula says, ‘not immediately but eventually yes.’

  ‘Whoa, so cool,’ Cookey says, ‘and see, told you it was a serious question.’

  ‘So,’ Nick says swallowing his mouthful,’ how long does it take?’

  ‘It depends,’ Paula says, ‘the cycles could all be at different stages but eventually we’ll all sort of happen together.’

  ‘Why?’ He asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Paula laughs.

  ‘It’s called menstrual synchrony,’ Charlie says, ‘or the McClintock effect,’ she adds in her cultured voice, ‘Martha McClintock did a study that showed that the start of the menstrual cycle of a group of women living in close proximity will eventually find they coincide. However, the study was later replicated and did not show the same results. Various suggestions and hypothesis have been put forward, one of them is the lunar cycle believe it or not, and pheromones too.’

  ‘Don’t mention pheromones,’ Cookey says coughing into his hand.

  ‘Pheromones? Why?’

  ‘Leg humper,’ Marcy mutters at me with a smile.

  ‘Don’t start,’ I groan, ‘it’s too hot.’

  ‘So you’re all going to be moody together then?’ Nick asks to a low chorus of groans from the women at the table, ‘ha,’ he grins at the glares, ‘sorry,’ he adds when they don’t smile back.

  ‘Business,’ I say after swallowing the last mouthful of Tracker, ‘Reggie? I mean Reginald, the floor is yours, Sir.’

  ‘Hm?’ He looks up from studying the map spread out on the table in front of him, ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’

  ‘All yours,’ I say to him, ‘what do you want to tell us?’

  ‘Your plan is flawed and you’ll get everyone killed,’ he says bluntly.

  ‘Reggie!’ Marcy snaps.

  ‘No no, hear him out,’ I say with the humour all gone now.

  ‘I don’t mean your plan, Mr Howie. I mean the plan you all suggested this morning. That plan. That plan will get you all killed before this day is done.’

  ‘How so? We’ve only been two places…here and that plaza.’

  ‘Three,’ Reginald says, ‘the plaza, this village and the town with the duck pond and by that process I was able to deduce exactly where you would go next and if I can deduce that then so can the infection. In fact the infection already has and is planning to meet you at the next place.’

  Looks are exchanged round the table. Clarence leans forward to listen intently. Paula interlocks her fingers and rests her hands on the table. Roy watches Reginald closely.

  ‘Keep going,’ I say when he doesn't continue.

  He looks round nervously and takes his glasses off to wipe the lenses, pushing them back on and I notice his hands move to adjust something at the base of his neck.

  ‘You see,’ he says in a quieter voice, ‘the town where we found Roy’s new vehicle, you told that infected person you were going to the next town. That gave everyone a starting point and the fact the infected were all laying on the ground when we arrived suggests they knew you were coming which therefore shows your words to the infected person had been heard and understood.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  He rushes on before anyone else can say anything, ‘from the plaza we came here and I, because I was not directly involved in the fighting, I was able to watch where they came from and I’m afraid to say it was staged…’

  ‘Staged?’ Paula looks up sharply.

  ‘Exactly that. Staged. It was almost as if the infection was sending them out in ones and twos to give you a false sense of security. A degree of perhaps having an opponent you could defeat easily and all the time it was testing you, probing, seeing where the weak spots are, detecting the chinks in the armour. From there the other player predicted you would not consider the housing estate as a centre of habitation and would consider the duck pond town as the next geographical town to be missed and therefore the town after that would be the next target. Which is how I concluded the other player would have diverted resources from the duck pond town towards the next one.’

  ‘Why the duck pond? The direction?’ Clarence asks, ‘how did you know that?’

  ‘The town was bordered on one side by a wood. Indeed the town is called Foxwood. On the side we came in on was open pasture land and the main road we were on also went in the same direction as they passed while heading through the duck pond. You see, that was the logical direction of the next town. Now, please don’t think I am underestimating your ability to do battle and I have no doubt that you would have succeeded at the next town which brings us to the next issue which is time. The opponent would not have had enough time to draw ample hosts to throw against you and my suggestion is that you would have been once again probed and tested to confirm the pattern and direction of your intended route. By the fifth or sixth you would have come unstuck with a trap lured to pull you in with overwhelming adversaries.’

  ‘And you know this how?’ Paula asks.

  ‘Because it is precisely what I would do. If I was the opponent I would play to my advantage which is having an almost limitless supply of host bodies to sacrifice in luring you towards a final confrontation whereby I would ensure you did not survive.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ I sit back in the chair and look round at the rapt and shocked faces, ‘so…I…fuck me…’

  ‘You said you were going to apply a random methodology to the way you attacked them whereas in fact you are simply leap-frogging from town to town. That is not random. That is the exact opposite of random.’

  ‘We might not have stuck to it,’ Paula says with a hint of defensive in her tone.

  ‘You would,’ Reginald says almost disdainfully, ‘because you were winning. You would have continued to achieve what you perceived to have been “great kills”’ he makes quote marks while he says it which just irks Paula, ‘and so you would have continued. I mean why change something that is achieving the required result.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ I say again.

  ‘Okay,’ Clarence says slowly, ‘so we change the random way. We could just stick a pin in the map and attack the closest town to the pin. That’s ra
ndom.’

  ‘It is not random,’ Reginald says, ‘it is not random at all. The thing about random is that it has to be truly random…’ he stops to lay his hands on the map in front of him, ‘the infection is a hive mind but it is still operating within the parameters of human intelligence and I would suggest that it is similar to a CPU…a computer processing unit. It calculates and works at a far higher pace than any normal human mind can work…but it is still restrained by the set parameters of the programme. In this case,’ he looks round at the table, ‘we are the programme. Our minds and the way we plan, function and the methods we use in our everyday lives. Whatever method you use will never be random.’

  ‘Are we in the Matrix?’ Cookey asks.

  ‘Shush,’ Paula waves a hand at him, ‘go on,’ she says to Reginald.

  ‘A pin in a map is random,’ Clarence asserts, ‘do it blindfold then…that has to be random.’

  ‘A pin in a map will be a random starting point and yes, the infection or the opponent will never be able to work out where that pin would end up. Unless of course,’ he adds icily, ‘it knew the height, weight and body composition of the person placing the pin and the height of the drop of the arm holding said pin and the size and layout of the map being used…’

  ‘Do what?’ Blowers asks.

  ‘Take Clarence if you will,’ Reginald says, ‘if he were to stand up, take a pin and drop his arm down and thereby choose a random place we would be able to work out, in advance, the likely place the pin would fall given his height, the dropping distance of his arm and the size of the map being used…it would not be precise but it would be close. Therefore a pattern is already formed and one that is within the parameters of the programme.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ I say again.

  ‘No. I don’t believe it,’ Clarence says.

  ‘Please stand,’ Reginald says to the bigger man and pulls a pen from his pocket, ‘this is your pin,’ he hands it over then adjust the map so it is directly in front of Clarence, ‘close your eyes and choose,’ he says.

  Clarence does as bid and after hovering his arm he lets it drop gently on the map and draws a dot with the pen.

  ‘Very good, now you must repeat the action as we have attacked the field you have chosen and killed the cows so now we must attack the next location.’