Blood at the Premiere: A Day One Undead Adventure (8 page)

Pure instinct kicks in. Henrietta runs towards the van, going wide round the back while covering her head in protection from the sparks flying out. She gets to the cab and sees the shattered windscreen is still held in place, showing a distorted view of a man inside screaming in fear. She kicks barefooted, thinking the screen will yield instantly on impact, but the toughened glass holds intact. She slams her heel in again and again, forcing more fractures and spiderwebs to form across the surface, but it refuses to shatter.

The sparks come harder, silently spurting out across the road towards the fluids leaking from the van that run along the camber of the road towards the rear end.

‘GET ME OUT,’ the driver screams in full panic, slamming himself into the windscreen. Henrietta kicks again but the thing holds fast. ‘GET ME OUT, GET ME OUT.’ The words screamed over and again by a voice cracking and hoarse with pain and terror.

She spins on the spot looking for something to use, but only the heavy stem of the lamp post lies nearby.

‘Go up,’ Henrietta shouts at the windscreen pointing at the passenger door that’s now a hatch above his head. ‘Open the door…up…UP…LOOK UP…’

‘GET ME OUT.’

‘LOOK UP…THE DOOR…GET THROUGH THE DOOR.’

Through the fractured glass she gains a view of the driver slamming a hand into his own forehead as the panic grips him hard. Sickeningly pale and his eyes look huge with the red blood so stark on his white skin. Standing in his cab staring unseeing at the windscreen. His mind unable to compute the instructions given but still he screams until the words become a stream of unintelligible sounds, like those of a child. He sinks down onto his knees as the shock renders his limbs useless. Thick tears roll fast down his face as the abstract surrealness of his own mortality looms closer. His mind prepares him for the worst. His brain shuts down conscious thought to let his mind fill with images of family, friends, his wife and his children. Of warm places and warm thoughts. An act of self-protection to ward off the horror of the moment, and as though drowning he feels a rush of warmth spreading through his body. He sinks down, gibbering without heed to the danger. He is trapped and there is blood so he must be bleeding. He must be dying. Go quietly. Die peacefully. Accept the death and go in peace.

Harmless small chunks of glass rain down on him as Henrietta’s elbow hammers through the window.

‘GET UP…’

The sparks soar from the light clusters. Each one a tiny firework of light that Dolan and Bennie watch, mesmerised and rooted to the spot from across the pavement. Those sparks mostly die as they plummet, but not all. A few land to sizzle out. A few more hit the liquids and die in the coolant and waters. A few, as with all things in life, push further and try harder to exist for longer and land in the pools of flammable liquids. The heavy machinery in the back of the van runs from petrol-driven generators now ruptured and leaking to mix on the road. One spark. One single, solitary spark that goes higher and contains more mass, which enables it to burn longer and glow brighter and retain more heat. When it lands it ignites the petrol, which burns in a pool of blue flames that runs to join the diesels and oils. Thicker smoke wafts up. The heat increases and still Dolan and Bennie stay motionless and still as they watch the colours of the flames dance yellow, orange and blue. An assault of the senses overwhelming what they can absorb and process.

‘Stand up,’ Henrietta hisses, straining to reach further into the cab to the man seemingly praying on his knees. Inches away from reaching him, but she can’t go lower. She lies flat with her arm reaching through the broken window, trying to gain that extra distance to make contact to wake him up, to snap him back to the present.

‘Stand up…’

Still he murmurs and watches his children open their Christmas presents, laughing and grinning from ear to ear. They will watch television. The snowman is on again. They will eat a turkey dinner and have mince pies. The presents were expensive and he’ll have to work overtime to pay the credit cards off, but it’s worth it.

‘FUCKING STAND UP…’ she screams, trying to swat the top of his head as the flames grow bigger to lick at the underside of the vehicle. Smoke wafts up and the heat increases. She looks down over the length of her own body to the oily black clouds billowing up, and the stench of flames and fire and things burning fill her nose.

‘Please,’ she pleads with a ragged cough, ‘look up…please…look up…’

Soft words from a soft voice that penetrates the self-induced fantasy of protectiveness that the driver has enveloped himself in. Dreamily, slowly, casually he looks up and smiles at the woman waving at him. He knows her. She is familiar in a comforting way. He grins wider and blinks slowly.

‘Give me your hand,’ Henrietta begs with a tear falling from her eye as she feels the heat lapping at the soles of her bare feet. ‘Just reach up…’

She seems nice and he knows her from somewhere so he reaches up with a hand inching towards hers as the tears from her eyes fall on his cheeks.

‘Bit more,’ she whispers and nods, urging while straining to reach down until the tips of her fingers brush his. Human contact that feels nice, and he smiles with love and warmth that shines from his eyes as she breaks a sob from her throat.

‘Please…just a bit more…’

He nods, smiles and edges that bit closer. She grips with an explosion of energy that heaves him up to his feet in one violent motion. On her knees, stomach muscles locked, and she heaves back, forcing him up towards the gap left by the broken window. Metal rivets dig into her legs but she feels no pain in the desperation to keep that momentum going. He rallies and stands properly with his head pushing through the hole.

‘Come on…’ Heat behind her, flames licking the air. She coughs from the chemicals burning her throat. Every muscle strains and through sheer effort of will she gets him up and through the window. A dazed, shocked man clinging to the images of his children while the reality of the situation pushes into his mind. Somewhere in that consciousness he helps his own survival using his spare hand and feet to push and grip.

‘Yes…’ She gets his upper body out of the window enough for him to bend double across the door. Dropping his hand, she reaches to grip the belt on his jeans and heaves again to pull his legs out. He slides, rolls, gets pushed, kicked and battered with heat burning his eyebrows, but she gets him off the door and down the side of the van onto the ground. She drops to his side, holding her breath while her eyes burn and her vision blurs. Thick, oily smoke seeps into her nose, forcing her body to retch. She grips his wrists in her hands and walks backwards, dragging him from the van now engulfed in flame and smoke.

A safe enough distance gained and she drops his arms to sink down on her knees, retching to puke from the reaction of the smoke. Gasping for clean air, she looks round to see Dolan and Bennie are still frozen to the spot.

‘Fuck me,’ the man gasps as he comes to his senses from clear air going into his lungs as the fear of instant death abates. ‘Fuck…I’m alive…Oh fuck, I’m alive…’ He sits up, trembling with shaky arms and eyes blurred with tears to stare at his van burning fiercely. He swallows and blinks, swallows again and keeps blinking. ‘Holy fuck…I thought I was dead…I did. I thought I was a goner…’ Palpable relief washes over him as he rubs a bloodstained hand over his face with an outpouring of emotion brought on by the flooding of endorphins into his body. ‘Cheers,’ he says weakly with a hoarse voice and looks over to finally recognise the woman who saved him. ‘Fuck me…Jordan saved my life…’

‘What?’ Henrietta snaps, blinking hard at the man staring wildly at her.

‘Can’t believe it. Jordan actually saved my life.’

‘Henrietta,’ Henrietta says, ‘Henrietta Swallow.’

‘Eh?’

‘My name is Henrietta Swallow not bloody Jordan!’

‘Oh,’ the man says in a tone that doesn’t quite believe her. ‘You sure?’

‘Yes, I am bloody sure. I am Henrietta. Jordan is the other one.’

‘Oh, right. My mistake. Cheers anyway, like.’

‘Whatever.’ She stands up to dust her legs down, plaintively ignoring the van now engulfed in flames and the thick coils of smoke curling into the air.

‘No, like, sorry,’ the man says again. ‘I thought you were Jordan.’

‘Yep,’ Henrietta says, stalking over to Bennie. ‘Give me that bottle.’

‘Sure,’ Bennie says, holding it up. ‘Is that man dead?’

She pauses with the bottle held to her lips. ‘He’s talking, Bennie. How can he be dead if he’s talking?’

‘I’m so drunk,’ Bennie says, shaking his head.

She takes a swig from the bottle more to wash the foul taste of chemicals and smoke from her mouth. The whiskey burns as it slides down her throat, bringing more tears to her eyes. She coughs to the side, yacking at the sensation, but the taste was worth it. Another swig and this time she swills it round her mouth before spitting it out.

‘Don’t waste it,’ Bennie says, alarmed at the liquid being sprayed needlessly on the ground.

‘What’s your name?’ Henrietta asks.

‘Bennie.’

‘Not you,’ she groans then looks at the man she just saved.

‘Brian,’ he says, taking the first steps on legs made of rubber.

‘Brian, this is Bennie and Dolan.’

‘Alright,’ Brian says quietly, looking round at his van burning brightly.

‘I’m Henrietta,’ Henrietta says, holding the bottle out to him. ‘Henrietta Swallow.’

‘Yeah.’ The man winces but takes the bottle.

‘Not Jordan,’ Henrietta says.

‘Yeah.’ Brian winces again to show his apology and swigs a big drink from the bottle while Bennie gets to his feet, tracking his beloved bottle being passed round.

‘Brian, I’m Dolan,’ Dolan says, standing up to offer his hand. ‘I’m an executive at Channel Four. Where is the nearest police station?’

‘Huh?’

‘Police station? Where is it?’

‘Dunno,’ Brian says. ‘No idea.’

‘You don’t know?’ Dolan asks.

‘I just said that. I dunno,’ Brian says.

‘But you’ve got a van,’ Dolan says, pointing at the burning vehicle.

‘He had a van,’ Bennie points out.

‘Every van driver knows where they are,’ Dolan says, glaring at Brian.

‘Got a satnav,’ Brian says with a shrug.

‘You had a satnav,’ Bennie points out.

‘I’m not from here. I was just driving through.’

‘Driving through?’ Henrietta asks. ‘What did you see?’

‘Henrietta,’ Dolan snaps. ‘I don’t think Brian wants to talk to a glamour model right now. Brian,’ Dolan says, fixing the other man with a wise look, ‘tell me, what did you see?’

‘I just said that,’ Henrietta says.

‘Yes, and he thought you were Jordan,’ Dolan says, rolling his eyes, ‘so leave it to the proper journalist.’

‘What?’ Henrietta says.

‘Brian,’ Dolan repeats, dropping into his serious gravitas voice. ‘What did you see?’

‘Er…like I had a meal and…’

‘Okay, I think we can skip past the long story about the meal and what you had to eat and what you had to drink, yes?’ Dolan snaps the words out, waving his hands to motion the man along. ‘Let’s get to the important stuff, okay?’

‘The meal might be important,’ Henrietta says.

‘I am so sorry,’ Dolan says, blanching. ‘Did you attend journalist school? Did you study journalism at university?’

‘Well, no, but…’

‘I did,’ Dolan says, glaring at her. ‘And I can tell when a witness is waffling and building up to the point in the story we need to know about.’

The rebuke stings and she backs down with a drop of her eyes. ‘Of course. Sorry, Dolan.’

‘It’s fine. You did your bit with the small fire on his van, but leave the rest to me, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Now. Get to the point, Brian. What did you see?’

‘Er, well, like I was saying. I was in the café having a meal and…’

‘We need to move on from the whole meal thing,’ Dolan says, whispering sarcastically.

‘But it happened in the café.’

‘What did?’ Dolan asks.

Brian falters and looks from Dolan to Henrietta then over at Bennie drinking from the bottle of whiskey. ‘Er…like…this bloke came in and bit the waitress.’

‘So the meal was important,’ Henrietta mutters.

‘Yes, thank you, Henrietta,’ Dolan states. ‘The meal was not important and we did not need Brian telling us what he had for a starter from the budget menu…’

‘I didn’t have a starter.’

‘Brian!’ Dolan shouts. ‘We need to move on from what you had to eat. Please just focus. Now, you said a man came in and bit the waitress. Is that correct?’

‘Er, yeah.’

‘Right, and then what happened?’

‘Then he bit the chef and then another bloke…and I…’

‘Okay, let’s move this along a pace,’ Dolan says, waving his hands again.

‘Oh, right. Sorry. Bit shocked because, like…you know…just had a serious road traffic accident and…’

‘Oh my god!’ Dolan shouts. ‘Will you please just focus on the questions? So after you had the starter…what did you actually see? With your eyes? What did you see with your eyes?’

‘Um…like, people biting each other,’ Brian says, nodding, unsure and looking somewhat confused.

‘Great account, Brian,’ Dolan says witheringly. ‘Well it’s obvious his little shunt has scrambled his brains. I’m not getting a word of sense from him.’

‘Brian,’ Henrietta says gently, ‘how far away was the café from here?’

‘About a mile.’

‘You left the café and came straight here?’ she asks.

‘Yeah. People going nuts everywhere. Like…everyone attacking each other and…I thought it was riots but they was biting and…’

‘Zombies,’ Bennie says.

‘Not fucking zombies,’ Dolan shouts.

‘But yeah,’ Brian continues, looking at Henrietta, ‘the whole mile was like fucking carnage…never seen anything like it.’

‘It’s widespread then,’ Henrietta says more to herself.

‘Okay,’ Dolan says, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now I’ve got the right information from you I can surmise this incident appears to be quite widespread. Brian, did you see any police officers?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t see them or you didn’t look for them?’