The Undead. The First Seven Days (12 page)

For what seems like ages, we stare at each other in silence.
  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he asks, his voice slow and controlled.
  It’s plainly, bloody obvious what I was doing, but there is no way I’m going to admit it now.
  ‘I… I, well, I was seeing if she was okay…’ I try to force a natural tone, but I just sound stupid.
  ‘You were seeing if she was okay? Well, is she?’ His tone is mocking.
  ‘Nooo… I don’t think she is.’
   He shakes his head and walks further into the room
  ‘Relax, mate…. but hey, they are fucking great, aren’t they?’
  ‘What are?’
  ‘The tits. The big fake tits you were groping. They’re fucking amazing and I should know. I fucking paid for them.’
  He stops at the other side of the catwalk, staring up at the undead, topless stripper. His clothes look very similar to those worn by the dead man. Smart dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. He plucks at the shirt cuffs under the jacket sleeves, pulling them straight.. I see gold coloured cufflinks. He looks like a London gangster from the movies, with dark hair slicked back, designer stubble and manicured fingers. Yet there is an aura about him; a threatening undertone. It is in his swagger and the sharp movements of his hands. He has a
forced natural
tone to his voice – he sounds as if he is used to having people listen to him.

Then he looks straight at me, holding eye contact.
  ‘So… what do you think?’
  ‘Err… they look great, really nice.’
  A look of anger flashes across his face.
  ‘So, you
were
looking at her fucking tits then?’
  The voice hasn’t raised, but the tone is very threatening. He stares at me, unblinking.
  ‘No, no, well… I saw them. I wasn’t looking though, I just sort of saw them.’
  The anger goes instantly from his face and he softens his tone, laughing.
  ‘Take it easy, mate. I’m only messing with you. She’s a fucking stripper, and she wants you to look at her.’
  Alarm bells are ringing in my head. There is a dead man lying with a knife buried in his chest just a few yards behind me, and an undead stripper tied to a chain on a lap-dancing stage, and this bloke is trying to joke around.
  I want to ask him about the dead man, but, for some reason, the thought of mentioning it scares me. I feel awkward. He is staring straight at me, and I can’t think of anything to say. I feel like an idiot – an idiot who is holding a big axe.
  He moves over to the end of the bar, lifts a hatch, goes to the shelves, takes a bottle of Whiskey and pours a large shot into a glass.
  ‘Do you want a drink, mate?’
  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
  ‘Have a drink with me!’

It’s a command, not a request.
  ‘Just a
Coke
then… please.’
He freezes, holding the bottle a few inches from the bar top. The look of anger flashes briefly across his face again.
  ‘Okay, C
oke
it is.’
  He takes a glass bottle of
Coca Cola
from a fridge and pops the lid off, then places a small, black napkin on the bar, and finally the
Coke
bottle on the napkin.
  ‘So, what’s it like out there?’
   He is straight back to being calm and natural, like any bar tender making conversation.
  ‘Awful, really awful. I got trapped and ran through the precinct, but I got in here and locked the door with that metal bar.’
  His mouth turns down at the edges while he nods his head.
  ‘Good work… quick thinking under pressure. You have good nerves, and an eye for the ladies too. I could use a man like you here. You working?’
  ‘Err… yes, I have a job.’
  ‘Oh, shame. Well, have a think about it and let me know. I’m Marcus, by the way.’
  He extends his hand over the bar.
  I don’t want to shake his hand, I really don’t want to get that close, but I move forward anyway, too worried of the consequences.

I swap the axe to my left hand and lean forward with my right. His grip is very firm, and he squeezes my hand.
  ‘I’m Howie.’
  ‘Nice axe, Howie.’
  ‘Yeah, it’s, err… a good axe.’
  I heft the thing up and down as though we are talking about a tennis racquet.
  ‘You’ve used it then?’
  A casual question. He is looking at the blood stains on the metal head, then a dark look flashes across his face
  ‘I hope you ain’t dripped blood up my fucking stairs. Do you know how much it fucking costs to get blood out of that carpet? I’ll fucking tell you – it costs a bloody arm and a leg. I know ‘cos I have to bleedin’ get it done every week! I keep telling those fucking gorillas not to bleed ‘em on the fucking stairs!’ 
  The darkness stays on his face a few seconds more as he lifts the glass and takes a large gulp. His fingers are white as he grips the glass.
  ‘Anyway, Howie, drink your C
oke
before it gets warm. You must be thirsty after all that running about.’
  Straight back to calm; he’s a regular Jekyll and Hyde.
  I take the bottle and drink some of the liquid. Despite the circumstances, the drink feels nice and cold, and I down it all.
  ‘Fucking hell, tiger. Take it easy! Here, have another one.’
  Marcus puts another bottle on the napkin, and I take it quickly. Too quickly. He flashes a look at me.
  ‘Sorry, I’m really thirsty.’
  He shakes his head, then pulls out a bag of white powder from the inside pocket of his jacket. He empties a small amount on the bar top and then takes something black out of his pocket. A long, thin blade shoots out of the black thing, and he uses it to chop at the powder, creating a thin line. He leans down and pushes a finger into the side of his nose, then snorts the line up. He stands upright quickly and wipes at his nose, then repeats the action with the other side. He seems unfocussed for a few seconds, but he quickly comes to.
  ‘Do you want some, Howie?’
  ‘No, thanks.’
  ‘Suit yourself.’
  I can’t help myself wondering how she got into the collar. Who bit her? Why did that man get stabbed?

More than anything though, I know that I should quickly leave. Very quickly. The way he keeps saying my name is freaking me out.
  ‘Is there another way out of here?’
  He wipes at his nose again with the back of his hand, then his fingertips flick at the nostrils.
  ‘Course there fucking is, Howie. Do you think the health and safety lot would let me open without having another exit? Fucking wankers. They’re always in here.’
  He pauses for a few seconds, looking at me.
  ‘It’s out the back… but you don’t want to go yet, do you, Howie?’
   Barbed question.
  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go.’
  He stands nodding for a few seconds, staring at me. Then his mouth purses.
  ‘Well, I think that’s fucking rude. Giselle is on stage, and you’ve had a grope of her tits. Taken advantage of my good nature with free drinks, and now you want to fucking go? That’s not very nice, is it?’
  He walks slowly towards the gap in the bar, wiping his nose, adjusting his tie and cufflinks and making quick movements with his hands.
  ‘You see what happened to the last cunt who tried to take advantage of me, Howie?’ He motions to the dead man.
  ‘He tried to take the piss too. Fucking won’t do that again, will he, Howie?’
  ‘Look, mate, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to find my parents and get out of here. It was very kind of you to give me the drinks.’
  ‘No, no, no, Howie. You don’t just take a free drink. There ain’t no such thing as
free
in this world, Howie. You always have to pay.’
  As he steps through the hatch, I start moving backwards, away from him.
  ‘Nothing is free, Howie. Now you’ve had a look at the girl, in my club, which I paid for, had a grope of her fucking tits - which I paid for - and had a drink… which I
fucking
paid for.’
  ‘Please, Marcus, I just want to leave.’
  ‘You ain’t fucking leaving, Howie. Not until you understand that nothing is for fucking free.’
  ‘Okay, what do you want? I don’t have any money.’

He walks towards me, picking the knife up and holding it down at his side.
  ‘Mate, what are you doing? Please just let me go.’
  ‘Howie, Howie, it’s not that I don’t want to let you go. It’s that I
can’t
. If I let you go, everyone will say that Marcus is a soft touch, that he’s fucking lost it. Respect, Howie, you got to have respect. You understand that, don’t you?’
  ‘Marcus, you don’t have to kill me. The whole world has gone mad. I’ve just been chased by zombies, for God’s sake! Please, just let me go. I won’t…’
  ‘You won’t what? What won’t you do Howie? Call the police?’ He starts laughing.
  ‘I don’t think they’ll help you now, Howie. It’s just me and you and our little debt.’
  ‘What do you want then?’ I ask him.
  He stops; a slight smile forming on his mouth.
  ‘Well, Howie, seeing as you groped her tits, I think you should say sorry. Giselle was always moaning that the punters were fucking rude, trying to grope her tits and arse.’
  ‘Okay, I’m very sorry. I really didn’t mean to cause any offence - and I apologise.’
  He shakes his head.
  ‘I don’t think that will be enough, Howie. You will have to apologise to her.’
  I make a point of looking at the undead stripper, still pulling against the neck collar.
  ‘I’m really sorry, Giselle. I hope I didn’t offend you. Please accept my apologies.’
  After years of practise, calming down irate and angry customers in the supermarket, I surprise myself with how sincere I sound.
  He looks at Giselle, then back at me.
  ‘Hmmm, good apology Howie… but you know what will really say sorry? Really show Giselle that you mean it?’ His voice is very low.
  ‘What?”
  The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up
  ‘A kiss, Howie. A nice kiss to say sorry always works with women. They fucking love it.’
  There is a look of excitement in his eyes. The sick bastard is enjoying this.
  ‘Tell you what, Howie. Seeing as it’s quiet in here tonight. When you’re giving her a kiss, you can have another feel of her tits. How about that? A free grope.’
  ‘No, no, I don’t think that’s right.’
  ‘You don’t fucking think that’s right? Who the fuck are you? Trying to stick your fucking dick in her mouth, weren’t you? You fucking pervert! Now its fucking wrong, is it? I say what’s fucking right and wrong in my fucking club, not you.’
  I lift the axe a little, just a slight raise. More to re-assure myself that I’m still holding it.
  A maniacal grin spreads on his face.
  ‘Oh, now, Howie… Howie - there’s no need for that. Just go and give Giselle a little kiss, squeeze her tits and you can go.’
  ‘No. She’s dead. She’s one of them.’
  ‘Give Giselle… A FUCKING KISS.’
  ‘No.’
  He walks towards me, holding the knife steady in his right hand. The other hand wipes at his nose, then checks his tie, smoothing down the front of his shirt and jacket.
  He walks around the edge of the catwalk. I start moving backwards and only have a short distance before I am trapped by the stage. Giselle is straining at her leash, only a few feet away now.
  ‘Where you gonna go, Howie? The exit is the other side of the stage.’
  Giselle turns towards Marcus as he moves closer to me.

As he walks along the side of the catwalk, she follows him, shuffling sideways quietly; her upper body leaning forward.
  ‘Look at you backing away like a pussy. Big fucking man a minute ago when you were alone with Giselle, weren’t you? Now look at you, Mr. Fucking Pussy!’
  The mocking tone makes me stop.

My right hand brushes against the back of a chair, which is amongst the last set of seating before the stage. I think back over the last twenty-four hours and then look down at the slick matter on the axe.
  ‘About twelve…’
  I look up at him, and he stops and stares at me.
  ‘Twelve what?’
  ‘First with a hammer, then two with my feet, then a few with a baseball bat. I also set some on fire and burnt a village down…’
  I take hold of the back of the chair, and I start to step towards him, dragging the chair behind me.
  ‘The first one with the axe was huge. I chopped his head off, then some more after that. So, I reckon, Marcus, that I have killed about twelve of them since last night, and I run in here to find shelter and meet a fucking psycho instead, so… you know what you can do, Marcus? You can FUCK OFF.’
  I launch the chair at him, swinging my arm from behind me with all of my strength. It would never really hurt him, but his reaction is to step back.

Step back against the edge of the catwalk.

He blocks the chair and laughs, just as Giselle drops down on him and sinks her teeth into the top of his head; her hands clawing at his face.
  She bites down hard, blood spurting out and soaking her face, pouring down his head.
  He screams and lashes out. The knife is still in his hand and he keeps stabbing the blade at her shoulders. She gets cut again and again but keeps going. He sinks down, slashing at her hands on his face, cutting his own skin with the desperate effort to get her off. His legs buckle, and his weight drops down onto the floor, pulling his scalp out of her teeth with a ripping sound.