by RR Haywood
They are all undead.
The woman from earlier on was not a young lady out for the evening, getting excited about wearing her new low-cut, blue dress. She was not a she. It was an undead.
They all are.
The quicker I get that into my head, the safer I will be, and the greater chance for survival I will have.
They are all undead.
I lower my hands from my head, resolute, changed and hardened. I have killed to survive and I will do it again – if I have to.
I admit there was a part of me that enjoyed the first kill with the hammer. No, not enjoyed, that isn’t right, something else. Something primeval. An instinct buried and softened by modern society; this sickens me but, at the same time, it provides comfort and I walk away without looking back.
Five
After half an hour I am still on the motorway, the fields and trees off to both sides slowly giving way as I pass a village.
I haven’t seen or heard anyone and with the adrenalin wearing off I feel totally and utterly drained.
At walking pace it will take me ages to reach my parents’ house. There is nothing on the motorway that I can use; I should go into the village and find a vehicle but I can’t see a junction anywhere or a turn off. I’m sure that the next junction is miles up the road, near my parent’s village.
I walk over to the side of the road and clamber over the crash barrier, down a ditch and across into a field. There is a barbed wire fence in a bad state of repair held in place by wooden posts. A few kicks at one of the posts brings it down, the wire sagging low enough so I can step over.
After the smooth surface of the motorway, the field is uneven and hard going. It looks to be pasture; I think that’s what they call it … the type of land that animals graze on. I realise that I have no idea what different types of land there are, or what different crops look like, or even if they can be eaten or not. I work in a supermarket, selling produce all day. We get training on certain things so that we can sound convincing to the customer and increase sales, but I can’t remember anything useful.
The field borders a lane, which I follow into the village. The first few houses are detached and large, but gradually they get closer together until a pavement starts running down both sides.
I reach a junction and realise this is the village centre. I have been here a few times before, when the motorway has been closed off, or my Dad wanted to take the scenic route. I remember there is a garage workshop at the end of the main road, so there might be cars there in for repair.
Moving off, I keep to the middle of the road, looking all around me as I walk. I can see some of the houses have open front doors, which is very creepy.
I am looking left and right and fail to see the massive blood stains on the pavement and road until I am walking through it. The road surface is dark, which makes it harder to see the wet and sticky blood.
There is a large stain, like someone was brought down here and bled out. There is too much blood to have just been from one person, but then again the human body has something like eight pints of blood in it. I try to imagine what eight pints poured onto the floor would look like, probably like that woman back on the motorway.
There was action here and recently too. The blood is hardly dry. A white UPVC door has bright red hand prints up high, smearing down into a large blood stain at the bottom of the doorway.
This was a mistake. I should have stayed on the motorway.
Up ahead and off to my right is a small selection of shops. I know there is a café here that used to serve really nice cream cakes, and there was a newsagent too.
The shops on the right are opposite a small village square where we used to park to visit the cake shop.
I can’t see the square yet, but as I get closer I get a feeling of impending doom, and, as the row of houses on the left end give way to the square, I start to see people standing about.
As I get closer, I correct myself. They are not people. They are the undead things. Lots of them too.
I stand completely still. There must be thirty or forty of them dressed in differing styles of night wear: pyjamas, nighties, pants, knickers and bras – some are naked. All of them are covered in blood.
I can’t understand why they are all here, standing in the village square. Maybe they’re gathering here from some remaining spark of intelligence drawing them to the heart of the village.
I slowly back away, one step at a time, watching for any sign that they’ve seen me.
Behind me, I hear glass bottles being knocked over and shattering. I spin round to see an undead male shuffling out of a doorway, kicking the milk bottles with his feet, making them spin them off to shatter on the road. This one is only a few doors down from me. If I move quickly I could get past him, but another of the undead comes out of the house opposite, staggering into the road, heading my way.
They are on equal sides of the pavement now, almost like they had planned the ambush. The village square undead have sparked up from hearing the glass shatter and are starting to turn my way.
‘Shit, shit,’ I murmur quietly. They are still slow moving, shambling with their stiff-legged walk with no sign of the fast things from the night-time.
I turn and start back, thinking that I can still make it through the middle of the two behind me, but there are more now, emerging from houses further down the road, blocking my escape route. I turn back to the road ahead but the village square horde are spilling into the road, coming at me.
The newsagent’s is just a bit further up. I start running for it, praying that it’s open. As I run past the cake shop and the butchers, a quick thought enters my mind of the massive knives and cleavers they would have, but the door is locked and too solid to force quickly. I run on towards the newsagent’s.
The horde is across the road ahead of me, coming from my left, slow moving, and I pass them by a few metres as I reach the shop and bounce off the door. I slam at it again, glancing back to the encroaching horde getting closer by the second. My fists rain blows on the door, pounding away as the panic builds.
‘Shit, come on …’ I wail at the door.
Looking down, I see the word ‘PULL’ marked clearly on the door in big letters. I yank the door and thankfully it opens; I stumble through and pull it shut behind me. Slamming the lock in place, I look for bolts but there are none. Instead, there are two metal hooks meant to hold a bar – but I can’t see the bar anywhere.
I move away from the door as the undead get to the other side, banging into the glass pane of the door with loud groans. Their twisted, gruesome faces press against the glass, smearing blood and saliva across the pane. Backing away with my eyes fixed on them, I stumble into a shelf full of chocolate bars and sweets, sending some of them to the floor. The sight of them makes me realise how hungry and thirsty I am. I grab a can of Red Bull from the chiller cabinet and start drinking, guzzling the syrupy sweet liquid down quickly before finishing off with a loud belch.
Chocolate bars, junk food and bottles of water get stuffed into the bag. The knife is still there and I take it out; it still looks small and puny but it makes me feel better by holding it.
Behind the counter is the cigarette display – all of the supermarkets have been fitted with sliding metal doors now, in a vain attempt by the government to hide cigarettes away. Smaller shops are not covered by the same laws and can still show their wares.
I did give up smoking but hey, I’m surrounded by the undead in a strange shop; my home is destroyed and civilisation has fallen. Fuck it, time for a smoke.
I take some tobacco and rolling papers. Tailor-made cigarettes are too expensive, so I switched to tobacco some time ago; there was nearly always someone selling duty free tobacco from their holidays. After smoking roll ups for so long, I couldn’t go back to normal smokes; the taste is disgusting.
I open the packet and roll a smoke with my hands shaking a little, but it’s quickly done and I use a lighter from a display pack on the counter
.
I inhale deeply and feel the nicotine receptors having a party in my brain. The tobacco and the effects of the energy drink kick in quickly, making me feel lightheaded. Swaying a little, I put my hand to the counter and lower my head down until my forehead is resting on the cool counter top.
The dizzy spell eases, leaving me with a pleasant buzz. As I open my eyes I spot a baseball bat wedged under the counter.
‘Thanks very much,’ I say into the quietness of the shop.
I pull the bat out and hold it in both hands. These shops open early and could be easy targets, especially in the dark, winter mornings.
The smoke from the cigarette in my mouth curls up into my eyes, stinging them. I clench my eyes shut and wait for a few seconds before opening them gently and blinking the tears away.
As I focus again, I see an undead standing at the back of the shop behind a bead curtain that separates the shop from the private area. It’s a heavily bloke with his fat gut straining against the material of his short sleeve shirt, covered in blood from a ragged bite wound in his neck.
The undead moves slowly forward through the bead curtain, which rattles loudly. Drool is hanging down from its mouth and his evil-looking red eyes stare straight at me.
I look about for an avenue of escape, but there is none. The front door is the only other way out, and I can see a mass of the undead things standing outside the door and windows.
The shopkeeper shuffles forwards, his bulk filling the aisle as he heads towards the counter. I stand still and spit the cigarette away to the side, not taking my eyes off him.
As he gets closer, I watch his head lolling back and forth and to the sides but all the time the red, bloodshot eyes stay fixed on me. Then his head hangs down with his chin to his chest and he looks up at me, menacing and very scary.
He walks straight to the counter and I grasp the baseball bat at the base with two hands and slowly twist my upper body off to the right, raising the bat behind me, ready to strike.
We stare into each other’s eyes, fixed, unmoving, neither of us blinking, and long seconds go by. His lips peel back to show yellow, uneven teeth. He can just feel the bite, he can visualise sinking his dirty yellow teeth into my flesh.
‘Piss off!’ I shout and swing hard, slamming the bat into the side of his head. An almighty swing and he goes flying off to the side, colliding with the shelving unit. His body crashes into the metal frame, driving it backwards, spilling chocolate bars and sweets all over the floor. The follow-through from my swing brings the bat straight into the side of the till with a thunk.
I put the bat down on the counter and pick the heavy till up, yanking it hard to pull the cables free before I raise it above my head and slam it down on the squirming thing as it wrestles with the shelving on the floor. The till smashes into his head, driving in the bones of his cheeks before bouncing off.
I move out from the counter with the bat in my hands and step over the now dead undead, moving carefully towards the beaded curtain.
Stepping through with my bat raised, I see a small stock room and a flight of stairs going up. To the back of the stock room is a door – barred and bolted. I move over to the door and stand listening. There is a dirty, old, wired-glass pane. All I can see is a small backyard and a wall a few feet away. There is no movement outside.
I pull the bolts back, tug the door open, and peer out into the yard. It has a high brick wall and a wooden gate. I go over to the gate, raise the latch and lean out to see a small clear road.
Going left will take me towards the garage I was originally heading for, but an idea forms in my mind and I quickly turn back.
I close the gate quietly, head into the stock room and shut the back door, pushing the bolt into place.
With the bat raised and ready, I climb the stairs to the flat above the shop and check the rooms.
Once I’m sure it’s all clear I go back down into the shop. I see four cans of lighter fluid on display behind the counter. I take them out into the stock room where I find another six cans and a large box of matches.
Back upstairs. The windows are old sash and already open in this sultry summer weather.
Below me are about fifty of the zombies, all gathered at the front of the shop. I have flashbacks to last night when I was trapped and my ham-fisted attempt at making a Molotov cocktail resulted in me puking up. I don’t intend to stick around and watch this time.
I pull the little plastic spout on the first one, up-end the can and squeeze a jet of liquid out onto the crowd below – I try to aim at their faces. They seem excited by the liquid being sprayed on them. They’re still very slow moving, but I can hear more groans and noises coming from them.
It takes quite a long time to empty each can, leaning out and bending over to prevent any spraying on me or the windowsill.
I open the box of matches and pause for a second, hardly believing what I am about to do … mass murder at any other time. I strike a match and flick it out, but it expires before it falls a few feet. I try another and the same thing happens. The third time I lean out and brace my feet, ready to pull back in quickly. I extend my arms, strike a match and quickly shove it into the open box, pushing it into the dark heads of the little sticks. The box flares instantly: a bright light and stench of sulphur. I drop the box and pull myself in, ducking down below the window.
I hear a whooshing noise as the lighter fluid ignites. I peer out, just a glimpse, before I run.
The flames are spreading quickly, leaping from body to body. I remember the sickening smell of burning flesh from last night and I race down through the building and out into the road. I turn left and start running, bat in hand.
Reaching the end of the street I turn left again, which takes me out onto the main road. I look back down to the shop and see thick, black smoke and flames licking at the side of the building.
Bodies on fire … they are still standing there, like they haven’t the sense or intelligence to move away. Even the ones standing on the outside aren’t moving away. They wait at the point they last saw me, ever hopeful to find one more piece of living flesh to bite into.
The building has caught light now. Flames are shooting up the side, and more smoke plumes into the air. There is an undead female moving across the square, heading towards the flames, and another undead behind her.
Further on, past the fire, I can see the undead moving up the street, heading towards the blaze.
They are like insects at night, drawn to light. I don’t know if it’s the action, the movement, the fire, or just the crowd of other undead that draws them.
I move away and head towards the garage, thinking about how they seem to follow each other. Last night I watched as they massed at the front of my house and behind my front door. But I was screaming abuse at them from my window, alerting them to my presence. Then the armoured van went past, the horn sounding repeatedly. Was it the noise of the horn that pulled them away, or the already huge stream of undead in its wake?
The thoughts give me hope. Maybe I can carry something that will distract them with movement or noise, something I can throw if I get cornered or trapped. There are plenty of children’s toys that bounce about with loud noises and flashing lights. I should have kept a can of lighter fluid and matches … I could set one of them on fire, which will draw others to it while I get away. The thought process makes me realise how much I need supplies and weapons. The bat is good; it’s longer than the hammer and means I can keep them away from me. A gun would be perfect, but I have no idea where to find one. The only guns in Britain are shotguns. Even a double-barrelled shotgun only gives two shots at a time, but a shotgun is also long and heavy – like a bat.
I think of the movies and news reports, of robbers using sawed-off shotguns. That would make them smaller and lighter to carry, but reduces their secondary use as a blunt instrument or a ranged weapon.
The police have guns. You see them quite a lot these days, armed police with pistols on their belts. They kee
p the bigger guns locked in armoured boxes in the car. I guess there must be armouries in the police stations.
That gives me another thought … maybe the police are holed up in their stations? If they have weapons and strong buildings they could remain safely inside. Boroughfare has a police station in the town centre; maybe I should have gone there first.
Ridiculously, I wonder if they would arrest me if I was armed with a gun.
Six
The garage is detached, a sprawling collection of buildings, workshops and lock ups.
To either side of it is wasteland with old wrecks and pieces of machinery rusting in the scrub. Big, double wooden doors face out onto a hardstanding, oil stains on the ground. There is a single fuel pump in the middle, hardly used as the price is always so much cheaper at the supermarkets.
There are two cars on the front: an old Vauxhall Cavalier on a jack with the driver’s side wheel missing, the other one a silver Nissan Micra.
I move slowly over to the Micra, the bat held in my right hand and out to the side. The car is locked so I head over to the reception door, which is also locked. Looking through the window, there is no sign of movement and the lights are off. I start walking around the edge of the building, looking for an easy entry point.
I hope the Micra is in for a service and not a repair. There might be other cars inside that I can use.
Round the back there are more doors, old wooden ones with no windows. The few glass panes are filthy and barely offer a glimpse inside.
I could force one of the doors open, but I worry about the noise it’ll make.
At the front again, I check the double doors, but they are flush together and well secured. The reception door is the best option, as the top half is a large glass pane.
I stand listening for a few seconds. I will have to be quick – smash the glass, get inside and find the keys – then get out and go. I pull the bat back and swing at the glass pane in the door. The glass is toughened and fractures, but stays in place. Another swing and the bat smashes a hole in the glass, but the pane remains in place.