by RR Haywood
The glass is designed to withstand impact and not shatter into pieces. I keep hitting the glass, smashing holes and forcing the bat around to create a hole big enough to climb through. The noise is too much and it’s taking ages to clear the glass, but I keep going, hitting and moving the bat around in circles.
The hole is big enough to lean my head through, and I check to see if I can unlock the door from the inside. No good. I look about to check for movement. I can see thick, black smoke in the sky above the village – the fire must have caught on the buildings.
I keep smacking the glass away until I have cleared a hole big enough to get through.
I slip my bag off and put it through the hole, then I push the bat through. I climb in, which is harder than I thought it would be, as the bottom ledge is too high to step over and I don’t want to enter head first. I have to hop my leg in and straddle the bottom of the frame, then shift my weight over to draw my remaining leg in. Within seconds, a loud alarm is sounding, and, looking up, I see a motion sensor attached to the wall.
I grab my bag and the bat, look about, and see a small sales counter for fuel payment; packaged wiper blades, oils, and lubricants are on display.
I go behind the counter but there are no keys. I check drawers and cupboards – again, nothing.
A door leads into the workshop area and I go through. It’s very dark as the grimy windows are not letting much light in.
I notice light switches on the wall and flick all of them, watching expectantly as fluorescent strips blink on slowly.
There are three clear work bays: one has a car jacked up high enough to walk under, the other two are clear. Tool drawers and various machinery are positioned around the outside. There are shiny red sets of sliding metal trays with cool logos on them – everything seems to have a ‘Snap-on’ sticker on it.
There is a small, metal key cupboard on the wall, but the door is locked.
I search and find a large, flat-headed screwdriver. Taking this back, I force the end into the gap between the metal door and the frame, levering hard to prise the door open.
Inside are a few rows of hooks, with various keys hanging down and two sets of car keys on fobs. One of them has the Nissan logo on a metal clasp. I take the keys and head back into reception. The ceaseless, wailing alarm feels like it’s penetrating my skull.
An adult female undead is leaning through the door, groaning and still trying to walk forward while leaning her head and shoulders through the hole.
I use the bat and strike downwards on her head. The impact bends her over the frame and I quickly swing upwards, smashing her back out of the door.
I peer out to see her lying with her feet by the door and her body stretching away with her head at an unnatural angle, the neck broken with either the force of the blow or the impact from hitting the ground.
I start to clamber through but my rucksack gets caught, so I go back in and take the rucksack off, throw it out and try again. I step down on the leg of the undead, which makes it easier to get out. I move away quickly in case she gets back up.
The Micra keys don’t have a clicker; it’s an old car and I have to put the key in the door. I put my bag on the passenger seat and turn the keys in the ignition. The car shoots forward with a jolt and cuts out.
Shows how long it’s been since I last drove a car.
I try again, keeping my foot down on the clutch this time.
The car starts and I pull away. The seat is too far forward and I feel for the handle underneath me and push it back.
I drive away from the village, heading in the direction of my parents’ house. In the rear view mirror, I can see plumes of black smoke billowing up into the sky.
The fire will spread quickly in the warm dry weather, and I think of all the damage being caused. No fire engines will come racing to the rescue. There is no one to put the blaze out. No police will cordon off the area. No ambulances will ever arrive to treat the wounded and hurt.
It will just burn and burn until there is nothing left.
I have an uneventful drive to my parents’ village. The car radio has buttons for preset radio stations. I press through all of them but hear nothing – only silence and the odd burst of static. Don’t they have emergency broadcasts telling people to stay in their homes or wait for further instruction?
Using the manual tuner, I twist my way through the frequencies until I start to hear the faint hiss and crackle of a transmission. After a few more seconds the car is filled with the sound of a man speaking a message over and over in calm and measured tones:
‘There are survivors, you are not alone.
Do not come to London, we are completely infested.
I repeat, DO NOT COME TO LONDON.
If you are in the South then we advise you head to the Victorian Forts on the South Coast.
Take whatever supplies you can carry: water, food, medicine and clothing.
Stay out of the cities and towns. Head to the Forts on the coast.’
I keep listening to the deep voice which I find calming and reassuring. There is no sign of panic or distress in the clipped English accent. I try to picture the man recording the message and my mind creates an image of a kempt older man; groomed and sophisticated, with a beard, definitely a beard.
I think of the Forts on the south; they are known as Palmerston’s Follies.
They were constructed in the 1800’s to fight off a French invasion that never happened. There are many of them along the coast: old-style batteries that were used for huge cannon and mortar placements. They were positioned to repel ships but also built to withstand land forces. Some of them have fallen to ruin, but most have been preserved by historical societies. They are all surrounded by high walls and have underground rooms connected by tunnels. I have seen them many times but never paid much attention; they are just a part of the landscape, a forgotten history.
The most famous are the three or four big, round bastions in The Solent, the stretch of water that separates the mainland from the Isle of Wight. They are amazing feats of engineering – used now as private hotels or left to decay.
I start to form a plan in my head.
If I can get to my parents’ I could send them to the Forts and then try to find my sister. She lives in a posh apartment block, with secure entry. It was Friday evening, yesterday, when it started, so she would most likely be out at a wine bar or social function – networking, as she calls it.
The message on the radio said that London was infested and not to go there, but I’m not leaving her. If there is a chance that she is holed up at home, then I have to try.
Seven
There is a small gathering of the undead outside the shop near my parents’ house.
Unlike the previous village, this shop is on the main through-road and it’s a modern, large convenience store, more like a mini-supermarket.
I slow down as I drive past, scared that I will see my dad amongst them. As I go past, I see movement from within the shop. The windows have posters and signs up and I can’t see them clearly, but someone is waving at me and I catch a glimpse of another person standing with them.
My dad could be inside. He might have gone there for his morning newspaper and become trapped with some other survivors.
I think about going straight to their house, but if he is inside I could be too late if I have to come back. I slow the car and look back at the things. Five of them, three males and two female.
One of them looks like a delivery driver, wearing matching blue trousers and jacket, another is very old – even from here I can see his hunched-over thin frame and wispy grey hair. He is only wearing baggy shorts and a white vest; the shorts are pulled up high and the vest is tucked in.
The two women are both late middle-aged and both dressed in sensible trousers, sensible trousers and sleeveless jackets with pastel-coloured shirts. Dog walkers: early to bed and early to rise, clean living with dogs that were always perfectly behaved and expertly trained. Fortunat
ely no zombie dogs that I can see anywhere. The last undead is a young male dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.
I watch them move, slow and shuffling, facing into the shop. They are trying to walk ahead, pressing their bodies against the door and windows, banging into each other.
I look about, but I can’t see any more undead anywhere. If I am going to do this I have to be quick, the noise and movement might attract more and I don’t want to end up trapped inside too.
I leave the car in the road with the engine running and the door open. I take the bat and leave my bag. Then I go back and close the door as I imagine coming back to an undead sitting in the backseat, waiting for me. Too many movies.
As I slam the door, the old male undead turns round to start shuffling towards me straight away. Within seconds, they are all turned and moving towards me – like an unspoken message has passed between them.
For a second I think about getting back in the car and leaving the people inside the shop to their fate, but I would never forgive myself if I did that.
The undead are still moving slowly and again I think about last night and how different they are now with their arms hanging down limp at their sides, heads lolling about, walking with straight legs – which accentuates the movement of their upper bodies.
I need to separate them as they are too close together for me to risk attacking them. Even with the range of the baseball bat, it would only take one of them to lunge quickly and I could get bitten.
I look at the area … the pavement has obstacles: a bike rack, litter bins and a post box. There is a high step down from the pavement to the road. These are things which will impede my movements and could cause me to trip or fall. But the road is wide and clear, with no obstructions.
Moving off to my right, I lure them into clear ground. I’m choosing my battleground, selecting where to fight, and it feels strange. There is almost a sense of excitement, a weird feeling, like just before the roller coaster moves off. I am scared, yet exhilarated.
The old man is nearest; he saw me first and has the head start. I thought his old age would make him slower and the others would go past him, but they move at roughly the same speed. It appears the undead are not hampered by age or infirmity.
Watching the old man come towards me makes me uneasy – he looks very old and frail and there is a large wound on the top of his right shoulder where the flesh has been bitten away. There is blood all down his front, smeared up his neck and on the side of his face.
I’m getting the same feeling as I had when the undead girl in the blue dress was in front of me. Attacking a woman or the elderly seems wrong. Then I remember how I felt after the motorway, when that undead woman tried to bite me – I had tried to help her, but she didn’t care.
They are undead.
They are all undead.
Get that through your head Howie, learn it and move on.
I raise the bat up, poised and ready – and wait for him to come.
He is a few metres in front of the others, red bloodshot eyes glaring at me and saliva hanging down from his mouth.
I look again and can see that he has no teeth, just gums. He is pulling his lips back and baring his gummy mouth. I almost laugh out loud … how can he bite anyone? Will he just suck on them … like a love bite? He should be carrying a blender to make flesh soup. I almost feel sorry for him and then I see his long fingernails. His old hands look like claws, the strength of that woman at the car was incredible and he probably has the same strength too. His fingernails look like they could rip flesh open. The infection could still be passed.
The humour is gone.
Fuck him.
I step forward and swing the bat hard into the side of his head and he goes spinning off to my left.
I move to the right, going round the side of the small group of undead as they all turn to follow me. I move back to the left and they all turn again. I move right and, again, they all move as one; synchronised zombies.
Slowly walking backwards, I lead them into the middle of the road before I run round the back of them. They shuffle round to follow me but they are too uncoordinated and bump into each other.
The delivery driver is on the outside so I dart forward and strike him on his shoulder, sending him spinning into the two dog-walking women, knocking them away and creating space between them.
The delivery driver goes down with one of the women and both of them groan audibly as they start trying to get back up but hamper their own efforts by constantly pushing each other back down.
The old man is still down and the young lad is closest now.
I step out so that I am facing his left side and smash the bat into his face. His nose explodes with a sickening crunch of bones that I can hear above the impact of the bat. He stumbles backwards and falls onto his arse. I hit again and he goes down onto the ground, but stills moves and is instantly trying to rise up. I go behind him so that his head is just in front of me. I then bend over and strike to the side of his head like a golf swing; the impact is hard and his whole body is jerked round with the force.
The delivery driver and the woman are separated and are trying to get up. The other dog-walking woman is coming at me, lips pulled back, showing her already yellowing teeth.
I aim an uppercut swing to her chin, but miss and fall into her. I drop my shoulder to force her backwards, and, straight away, her arms come up to grab at me. She grips my left arm with vice like fingers that squeeze and lock on.
I use the end of the bat to hit the side of her head, but we are too close and I cannot generate enough force. Small hard jabs and her nose breaks, her cheeks fracture, skin splits and bleeds but still she won’t bloody let go.
Whacking the hell out of her face to prevent her from getting her teeth into me and I try to pull my arm away but she is gripping too hard. I move backwards, forcing her to stumble after me.
Her grip is so strong. I try to wrench my arm away, but she holds it tight. I keep smacking the bat into the side of her head and my feet hit the old man on the ground. I step away and force the woman to walk into him, tripping her up. She stumbles forward and goes down, but the force of her grip pulls me down too.
The delivery driver is at my right; I swing out and strike at his chest. I’m half bent down and having to swing up and out to the right. The blow knocks him back, but he stays on his feet and comes back at me. I hit down again at the woman and drive her back to the ground and still she won’t fucking let go of my arm.
I swing out and, once more, knock the delivery driver backwards. I shuffle the bat out, so that I am holding the end, then pull back and swing down as hard as I can into the back of her head, then I put my foot onto her arm and pull myself free.
Moving away quickly, I smash the delivery driver in the face and he goes down. I hit him again and again, driving the bat into his skull beating his head in.
The tripped woman who gripped my arm is getting back up again like some bloody cyborg machine that just refuses to be stopped. This time I go at her, striking hard with multiple whacks until her skull caves in and I can see bits of her brain spilling out.
There is only the one dog-walking woman left now. I am breathing hard, but I am focussed and ready. I look up just as a young Asian man comes up behind the woman and hits her in the head with a cricket bat, knocking her forward, towards me, and I quickly swing out and send her back at him. He is ready and hits her from behind and again she staggers forward.
‘Just fucking die,’ I yell out in frustration at how bloody tough these women are.
We both step in and strike at her and she goes down from our repeated blows.
Her head is destroyed, the skull imploding under the blows, brain matter, blood and tissue bursting out over our feet.
I stop hitting and step back, checking that they are all down. Then I look at the young man still hitting at her with the cricket bat.
‘I … I think she is finished, mate,’ I say to him, ‘mate, she’s definitely finished…
or just carry on,’ I add as he unleashes a barrage of blows on the extremely dead zombie.
Eventually he stops and steps backwards, holding the bat with both hands down at his front, blood all over his shiny, white trainers. He looks young, no more than fifteen years old; he is dark-skinned with black, gelled hair; Indian or Pakistani, maybe Sri Lankan but his eyes are blazing from the kill.
Behind him, the shop door opens and an older woman comes running out, angrily yelling at the boy.
‘What did you do that for? I told you to stay inside.’
The boy just stares down at the mangled body beneath him. He doesn’t react as his mother stands next to him, shouting. She gets no sign that he is listening and tries to pull the bat away from him. Feeling that motion, he becomes alert and steps away from her, pulling the bat from her grasp.
‘He was trying to help us, we couldn’t just leave him on his own, he could have been killed!’ His tone is angered but squeaky and high-pitched, showing his age.
‘No, you could have been killed, you foolish boy, and don’t talk back to me … don’t you ever talk back to me!’ she shouts back at him.
She switches into a language that I cannot understand, speaking quicker to the boy. He finally hangs his head with a look of shame and starts back towards the shop. The woman stays and looks at me, and when she speaks, her tone is polite.
‘Thank you for what you did. I am sorry for my son, he is young and foolish.’
She looks about at the bodies, the blood stains on the road, the woman’s brains beaten out of her head – but she shows no emotion or reaction.
‘You don’t have to be sorry … he was just trying to help, he was very brave to do that – you really shouldn’t be angry at him,’ I say to her.
‘Please do not tell me what I should or should not do with my son,’ she snaps back.
‘Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I can’t believe what’s happened…what’s happening, this is … just so …’ My voice trails off.