by RR Haywood
Heather. Pain in his heart. Heather kept him alive. Heather cleaned him. Fed him. Gave him water. Cared for him. She gave him love when he deserved nothing save a bullet to his head. Heather kept the children alive. Her willpower gave them the strength to keep going. Pain in his heart again. A deep searing agony at what she gave and the cost. The true cost.
He looks down to the form cradled in his arms. Her face now still and unmoving. Her arms hanging limp. Blood everywhere. His blood that drips on her. Her blood that drips on him. Wounds deep and serious in her body. He stands staring, mesmerised at the woman he holds then finally he lowers her like she is made of glass onto the ground and reaches for the hose. He will clean her the way she did for him. He will wash the tainted blood from her skin and rinse the filth from her hair.
The ground runs red. His gentle hand runs over her soft face. The water pours soft through her hair and cascades down over her forehead and down her cheeks to reach her tender lips that gave him his mind back. He holds her with one arm on one knee, cradled and safe. He runs the water over her body and lets it pour to the ground to form crimson puddles. He holds her now and he will hold her forever. Tears in his eyes that fall to score tracks through the grime on his skin. Tears that fall to land on her. She gave him life. She straddled his lap and fed him from tins. He carried her on his back. She slept next to him. They shared life and healed each other. A dangerous monster. Her dangerous monster. Always her dangerous monster. He bends to press his lips so gently against hers. His heart breaking with a pain that will never heal.
He holds still and in that second the greatest fear of all is that she will be kissed and remain still. That fear grows and becomes a real thing when she remains inert and lifeless. His eyes close in rejection of belief and faith in goodness and dreams. His heart breaks to fall and shatter in a thousand pieces and he holds still with a sadness he never believed possible but to know her was worth all the sadness of the world. He knew love. Just once. He felt loved. Just once. Now he knows it again and he gives that love back. She gave light in his darkest of days. She gave hope where there was none to be had. His eyes close from fatigue, from hope being lost, from the tendril of joy at knowing the children got away, from a mind that came back enough for him to feel this loss.
Next to a stable in a paddock a dozen miles from the fort he cradles her body with his lips holding against hers, not wanting to pull away because to pull away will be to accept a thing that is too hard to accept. The water pours through her hair. Her body bleeds but clots faster than a normal person’s would. The water goes into her mouth easing the dryness in her throat. Her lips move. A twitch that stills his heart. She moves again. A hand comes up. Reaching for his neck. She presses in, her lips parting to kiss and hold on for she will never let him go. Not now. Not ever.
He is her dangerous monster.
She is his.
Dear reader,
Thank you for reading Blood on the Floor. I truly hope you have enjoyed the story.
Blood on the Floor is the first standalone book within the world of The Undead. If you are new to this world you will have seen Heather and Paco journey through a land dominated by a man called Mr Howie. The story of Mr Howie is told through the main series in an episodic format commencing with The Undead Day One.
The Undead has become the UK’s best-selling zombie horror and post-apocalyptic series. It is entirely self-published but has gained over 1500 top reviews on Amazon. I am immensely proud of these books and plan to continue both in the main series and in telling stories from within this world.
There will be another Undead Adventure published in the summer (2016). However, if you want to read more of how this world comes to be then please read on. The Undead Day One is at the end of this book.
I love getting feedback from readers. Reviews are essential to Indie authors but you can also find me on Facebook – RR Haywood. I read every message that comes through and try my best to reply.
There is a Living Army Facebook group too, where you can meet other readers, win prizes and share your love of the zombie genre.
Thanks again for reading,
Take care
RR Haywood
April 2016
The Undead
Day One
RR Haywood
rrhaywood.com
Copyright © R. R. Haywood 2012
R. R. Haywood asserts his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events, unless those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or undead), is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Design, Cover and Illustration by Eddyart.
My name is Howie. I was named after my father Howard, but it became too confusing to have two Howards, so I became Howie.
I am twenty-seven years old and I work as a night manager in a supermarket.
This is my account.
Day One
Friday
One
‘The unseasonably hot weather has caught us all out, not just our store but stores right across the region. Head Office are working round the clock to get the summer seasonal stock out to us. In the meantime, if we get customer enquiries then please, please and I say it again, please direct the customer to our online services and assist them with instore ordering. Also, try to remind them they can purchase online and collect in store…’
My god this is boring. I’m hot and uncomfortable. Being the night manager means most of this doesn't apply to me as I can’t see our usual quota of taxi drivers, drunks and whatever other poor sods coming into the store at night asking why we don’t have our Bermuda shorts on offer yet or why have we only got ten different sun creams instead of over bloody thirty of them.
‘…Onto other news. The morning managers have reported a definite improvement on the readiness of the store for the daily trade. That, in my opinion is down to the appointment of the new nights manager…’
Shit that’s me. This is like being in school when the teacher is droning on and then suddenly stops and looks at you, then everyone else looks at you and you get that fluttery panicked feeling of missing the question.
‘Er…’ I sit up properly instead of slouching back with my legs stretched out. Looking round I can see the other managers are all smiling at me, apart from Paul that is.
‘We have seen an increase in trade during the hours of darkness too,’ the general manager continues, ‘a drop in staff sickness and absence,’ he peers down at a sheet of paper in front of him, ‘wastage has been reduced by over twenty percent and,’ he looks up at me with that genial smile, ‘unbelievably, we have seen an actual increase in sales of our promotional offers during nights which, ladies and gentlemen,’ he casts his eyes round the room, ‘is unheard of for a twenty-four seven store, not only within our chain, but all the major chains.’
I hate that fucking phrase. Twentyfourseven. It’s just so, so…
‘So, Howie, the floor is yours,’ the general manager looks to me, ‘please impart how you have achieved this within three months of being appointed.’
Paul is glaring. Can’t blame him really. He was the night’s manager for twelve months and sat in these meetings every two weeks moaning about how it was all so different at night and “you don’t understand the pressures we’re under.”
Different? Pressure? The only difference is that it’s dark outside and as for pressure, the bloody store hardly has any sodding customers cluttering the place up and making a mess.
‘Ha!’
I start off with a blurt of laughter then inwardly curse at myself for doing it. Yeah great start Howie, really great. ‘Um, well we kind of er…just worked a bit harder?’ I offer while feeling a spreading blush creeping up my cheeks.
‘Specifics Howie,’ the manager asks, urging me share my excellent managerial skills, ‘Head Office are interested and want to know what is being done differently.’
Ooh, that causes a ripple through the shark pool. These career hungry bastards have just heard the words Head Office and interested in the same sentence. To have Head Office interested is either the pre-cursor to a death sentence or something glittery and gold.
Paul isn’t glaring now, the poor sod has dropped his head and looks beat, completely beat, like he’s ready to start making a noose for himself.
‘Specifics,’ I say slowly while rubbing my jaw to try and look all clever and serious, ‘well, er…staff absence is down because er…’ What do I say? The night staff have been the night staff since time began. They are a collection of misfits and folk who, for many reasons, just don’t like working in the day. Be that because they have a general hatred of humanity or an almost vampire like existence, where the sight of the sun would burn them to death, no one knows. I can’t tell the general manager it’s down to the quick poker session we have during the lunch break can I? Shit, that’s really not allowed, like really not allowed.
‘I think it’s only too easy to see the staff simply as resources and not as humans with feelings and emotions,’ Oh shit, stop Howie, ‘so in order to maximise the efficiency of the night staff, I simply make the working environment a nice place to be,’ Howie stop, really stop now, ‘we all get on with each other and er…well I may have bent the odd rule, not broken I hasten to add.’ Jesus, Tesco rules are carved in stone and carry a sentence of death by firing squad.
‘What rules?’ The general manager barks, suddenly losing his enthusiastic persona.
‘Er well, the spreading of breaks is the main one really. I know during the day you have to make sure the break times are staggered but on nights we go down to a skeleton crew which is rotated, and we take our breaks together which helps build a feeling of camaraderie.’
‘Right,’ the general manager nods slowly as though he’s just been told the secret to immortality, ‘wastage?’
‘Wastage?’ I shift again. The reduction in wastage is down to getting barred from the poker game if you break anything, ‘er, just being like, really careful,’ I nod.
‘The increase in promotional sales?’ The general manager prompts. Everyone is staring at me now, apart from Paul who is almost weeping into his mug of tea.
Yeah, the promotional sales. Whoever gets the most gets the first hand for free in the following nights poker game. ‘Promotional sales? Well that’s just down to er, an increase in promotional awareness and outlining the benefits of maximising sales and how those benefits cascade down to everyone.’
‘Good,’ the general manager nods with interest, ‘very good. A rising star in our midst ladies and gentlemen, and someone to watch out for,’ he beams round the room, happy again. Cheers for that, I’ll be testing my tea for poison now and watching out for trip wires next to the big, waste crushing machines. ‘Keep it up Howie and you’ll be back on days before you know it.’
Finally, he turns his attention to someone else as his eyes shift to the produce manager for an update on why sales of turnips have gone down. Thank fuck that’s over.
I hate these meetings but the good thing is that they earn me an extra night off. I work in the day so I can attend the meeting and am allowed to finish early. It’s Friday night so I’ll stick around until my lot start at 9pm then be off home for junk food, sofa and maybe even a couple of beers.
Eventually the meeting ends and suddenly I’ve got a whole bunch of new friends. Even the gorgeous cashier manager gives me a smile which just makes me blush and walk into the back of a chair.
‘Well done Howie,’ Steve the home deliveries manager pats me on the back.
‘Head Office eh?’ Someone else nods meaningfully at me. Duty managers, shift managers, staff managers, more managers than you can shake a stick at but Tesco work to a formula and as much as we all moan about corporate greed, they are bloody good at it.
The only problem with being alternated to work a late shift instead of a night to attend the meeting, is that all the managers are required to be at work at the same time, which translates to no spare office space, no free computers to work from and not even a spare desk to sit at while the rest of them polish their name badges and slick their hair down.
Instead, I stroll about the store and smile at people while carrying some bits of paper. Always works that does.
Five o’ clock and the mass exodus of office people are running out the store to start doing whatever normal people do on Friday nights. I get some office space and a computer and get my shit together as the evening rolls on while listening to my small FM radio broken out of my drawer now the other tie wearing bastards have all gone home. By Nine O’clock I’m pretty much finished and stretching back.
‘…reports from Reuters suggest the riot was sparked by one assailant biting into several members of the public within the shopping centre…’
Did he just say biting? Bloody hell. Grabbing the radio I twist the volume knob and focus on the news report.
‘Details are still sketchy but we do know the area is being flooded with police in an effort to bring order…’
‘Evening Howie,’ glancing up I miss the rest of the report as Bert walks smartly into the office.
‘Bert, how are you?’ I greet the older man with a smile as I start rolling my sleeves up properly.
He gives me a look as he stares at the sleeves half rolled up my forearms and my hasty efforts to correct them.
‘Smartness makes the man,’ he smiles amiably. He’s grey haired and well into his sixties but Bert screams ex-army. His shoes gleam from being relentlessly bulled, his trousers have razor sharp creases running down the front and his sleeves are either down and fastened properly or rolled up above the elbow with exact precision, something he likes to remind me about when he sees me wondering about with mine all over the place. ‘Meeting okay was it?’ He asks, taking a radio from the charging unit.
‘Fine, profits up, wastage down, sickness down…they’re very happy.’
‘Didn’t mention the poker games then?’ He chuckles.
‘Funny that, no I didn’t,’ I laugh as he adjusts his black tie. He is one of the night security guards and holds the coveted position of CCTV controller, staying within the secure room to watch the millions of live feeds from the millions of cameras dotted about the store.
‘Oh well, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. You’re off tonight aren’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ I grin, locking my fingers together behind my head I stretch out, ‘pizza, beer and my sofa.’
‘Young man like you,’ he tuts, ‘should be out finding yourself a nice woman. Or a bad one,’ he adds with a wink.’
‘Yeah one day… I’m still holding out for the cashier manager, she actually smiled at me today.’
‘Did she now?’ he chuckles, ‘you’d best go buy a ring then.’
‘Yeah alright,’ I laugh, ‘here, have you heard the news? Something about a riot and someone biting…’
‘Caught the tail end of it as I was leaving home, er…somewhere in Europe I think…’
‘Oh, not here then?’
‘God no,’ he shakes his head, storm in a tea cup somewhere.’
‘Oh.’ Losing interest I put my radio down and start getting ready to go. In the corridor I can hear the night staff gradually filing in and there is a definite difference in them. Three months ago and they were sullen, withdrawn and stayed in horrible little cliques. Now though, I can hear them laughing and sharing jokes, all of them avoiding mentioning the poker game for fear of the late shift staff hearing them.
That was it; it was something we have the ot
hers don’t. A secret thing that we can all enjoy with a sense of doing it together. The poker games were only ever for a couple of quid and the biggest the pot ever went up to was something like a fiver.
‘Evening.’ Stepping out the office I call down to the men and women gathered by the lockers, getting a chorus of replies in return. Happy people smiling and joking, and it almost makes me want to stay at work. Almost.
‘Mr Howie,’ turning round I see Dave, one of the night shelf-stackers standing there.
‘Dave, how are you?’ I don’t bother trying to correct him calling me Mr Howie, I’ve said it to him loads of times but he still does it.
‘Fine thank you Mr Howie,’ he nods briefly then walks past towards his locker.
‘Dave, we had a meeting today, performance is up, wastage and everything bad is down so er…’ he stares at me with a completely blank face, ‘well the offer is still there if you want to move onto working days.’
‘No thank you,’ he replies dully. A hard working man, exceptionally quiet and reserved he never joined in with the banter, the jokes or anything. He worked and he worked hard. His breaks were kept to a minimum and even during his hour long meal break he’d take enough time to eat and then go back to work. Mind you, no one ever took the piss out of him either. He was small but something about him just discouraged any stupid comments.
‘Okay, well let me know if you change your mind.’