The Undead. The First Seven Days (13 page)

He is on the floor, clutching the top of his head, writhing in agony. Giselle is straining forward; a chunk of hairy scalp hanging from her mouth.
  I run around the side of the catwalk. There is the toilet door, but no other exit - it must be through the stage.
  I climb up and push through the curtain. The back area is dark and only lit by red bulbs. There is a large box with props in it. I see another neck collar attached to a chain, sets of handcuffs, feather boas and riding whips.
  I take a set of handcuffs and one of the neck collars with a chain and then head back out to the front, attaching a leather strap at the end of the chain to one of the shiny metal poles on the stage.

Giselle is still trying to reach down to Marcus. Looking at her from behind, I can see a huge chunk of flesh has been bitten out of her once perfect backside.
  Once I am at  Marcus’ side, I put one end of the handcuffs through the chain and close the loop. I then lean down, keeping away from Giselle, and grab at Marcus’ wrist, attaching the handcuff and locking it securely on him. He quickly springs to his feet.
  ‘You fucking cunt – look what you’ve done!’
   He comes at me, his face covered in blood. There is a large, open gash on the top of his head.

I move backwards away from him. The chain catches tight and pulls him back. He realises what I’ve done and scrabbles at the handcuff.
  ‘No! No!’
   He keeps pulling at the handcuff, then starts tugging at the chain. He follows the line and sees it is secured to the pole, but only with a leather strap.
  ‘I’ll cut you up - you little runt.’
  He starts towards the stage edge, and Giselle lunges at him again. I move forward and pick up the knife from the floor.
  He moves backwards as Giselle comes at him. She can’t reach him, but he can’t reach the pole either.
  ‘Looks like you’re stuck, mate.’
  He spins round to face me.
  ‘Please, I was only joking. I wouldn’t have done anything to you. Come on, Howie, please, let me go.’
  I lift the hatch and nip behind the bar, and, after finding a clean glass, pour a large shot from the bottle he used a few minutes ago.
  ‘Have a drink with me, Marcus? No? Okay, suit yourself.’
  I gulp it down in one mouthful. The liquid burns my throat and makes me cough, and I spit it out on the bar.
 
Cool, very cool
.
  Marcus is begging me to let him go. He gets angry again and starts yanking at the chain, pulling at it relentlessly. He finally stops pulling and touches the top of his head. His hand comes away bloody, and he winces with the pain.
  I watch as he scrabbles to take out his bag of white powder from the inside of his jacket. One handed he is very clumsy. He tries to open the bag and tip some out onto the back of his handcuffed hand but he drops the bag, and the white powder spills out onto the carpet. He drops down and snorts his nose against the floor. Standing back up, he has white powder stuck round his nose and mouth; it mixes with the blood and turns pink.
  ‘Howie, you can’t leave me like this… I’ll die.’
  I don’t feel guilty. I have just sent a man to his death. A living man. Not an undead but a living, breathing person.

Even if I let Marcus go now, he is infected. How long does it take to turn? The wound might not be fatal, and he might recover. But then I look at Giselle’s arse, and that doesn’t look like a fatal wound either, so the infection must take over the body. One bite must be enough to become infected.

One bite to kill you, and then make you one of the undead.
   I leave the bar area and head for the stage, then I stop, and, as a token gesture, I throw the knife over to him.
  He drops to the floor, retrieving the knife as I go through the curtain. Ahead of me is a door marked Fire Exit, and a metal safety bar on the inside. I push the bar down and leave the club. Marcus is screaming for me to come back. The door closes behind me, shutting out the noise.

There is a set of concrete steps going down in front of me. They are well lit, with a hand rail on the side.

Behind me is another door, inward opening. I push against the door, but it’s locked.
  As I reach the bottom of the stairs, there are doors to the left and right and what must be the street door ahead of me. A red fire extinguisher is hooked on the wall. The street door is solid wood, and I have no view of what’s on the other side.
   I’ve lost my bearings and can’t work out if the door opens onto the High Street. It must do.

How far up am I from the entrance to the club?

No, it opens out to the rear of the club. I went in the main entrance and turned left into the club, then out the stage door and turned right down the stairs…so, it must be the rear.
  So… these other doors must lead into the shops on the High Street?. I can’t remember what shops are in this area. There must be windows in the shops. I would be able to see out to the front and maybe the rear and then work out the safest escape route.
  If I open the street door and the undead are there, I might not be able to close it again. But my mind is made up and I try both doors, but they are locked. They don’t look that formidable, so I try to push against one of them, and it yields slightly. I take a step back and slam my shoulder against the door, just like they do on TV. I bounce straight off and my shoulder hurts. Next, I kick at the door, aiming at the middle where the lock would be. The door holds, but it doesn’t feel that strong, and I kick again, harder. The door holds, but I can feel it yielding. Another two hard kicks, and the door bursts open.

I’ve always wanted to do that - kick open a door and burst through with an axe shouting “…Here’s Johnny”.
  My great plan backfires as I hear a loud and constant beeping sound. The alarm. Maybe a minute before it starts sounding properly, alerting every undead in town: “Here’s Howie… come and eat him”.
  I rush in through a storeroom. There are boxes stacked up and clothes rails with garments hanging off them – the place is foreboding; shadowy and dark.
  I go through the eerie storeroom. To the left is an office area, and the alarm panel is illuminated on the wall. I see a ten digit number pad with buttons marked ENTER and RESET.
  Shit! There must be a code. I know most places have them written down somewhere. The high call-out engineer costs for resetting the alarm means they nearly always put it somewhere close, so the staff that are either half asleep or half drunk from the night before, can switch it off.
  It’s too dark to see anything and I waste vital seconds looking for the light switch, eventually finding it. I then see a desk with a computer and there is a yearly planner on the wall with the staff annual leave marked out. Box files and folders are stacked untidily on shelves, and there are open boxes with new till receipt rolls spilling out of them.
  I check on the desk, sifting through bits of paper; the constant beeping sound spurs me on.
  I check the desk jotter, but there are just scribbles and mobile phone numbers. I open drawers and find: a calculator, a pack of highlighter pens, a stapler, a hole punch and more crap  - it all goes flying out as I rummage through – but find nothing else.
  I check along the shelves, but it’s too late. The alarm sounds with a final, ear piercing shrill, and the interior lights are flashing.
  I imagine every undead for miles suddenly standing still and cocking their heads to the noise.

I go back to the alarm panel, staring daggers at it, contemplating smashing the fucking thing with my axe and see a six-digit number, it is there on the panel, written in faint pencil. I key the numbers in and press ENTER, and the alarm ceases instantly.

There is only a low beep that sounds out every few seconds now. The alarm will need to be reset, but I don’t think the alarm company will be alerting the police.

I go back into the storeroom. A door leads to a toilet and then I find the staff room. It is a small room with a cheap table and chairs. There is a small kitchen worktop with a sink, a plastic kettle and an old, two-slice toaster. They make these staff rooms unwelcoming to try and put the staff off spending too much time in them. A two slice toaster - so you can only do enough for yourself and not encourage others to loiter.
  I eye the kettle and toaster, and the thought of tea and toast makes me homesick and hungry.
  As I turn to leave, a pin-board on the wall catches my eye. The board is full of pictures of young women on nights out. The staff all out for a laugh, pictured in various poses, they are holding drinks and pulling faces. They look young and carefree. I linger and stare. The images might have been taken just a few days ago. Young people with their whole lives ahead of them, working together, going out and drinking. Relationships, music, fashion.
  It’s all gone now.

A deep sense of sadness fills me, and I suddenly feel very lonely again. Maybe it’s better to be like Marcus - marbles gone and totally mad; his mind warped to protect himself against the bitter reality.
  No! Fuck him. He was a freak.

Leaving the staff room, I decide to check the rest of the store. If it’s safe, I will stay for a little while.
  Then I realise that I gave Marcus the knife back. He could follow me down here, if he breaks free.
  I go back to the door that I kicked open. The lock is still sticking out, and the frame is splintered. I go back to the office and find a set of keys hanging on a hook under the desk. One of the keys fits the lock, and I unlock the door and close it. Then I lock the door again and test it. It holds, but rattles.
  Maybe he will assume that I went out of the back door. The alarm went off, but his club must have been soundproofed, so there is a good chance he didn’t hear it, above the funky, pounding, disco music.
  I leave the key in the door, in case I need a rapid exit. Finally, I find the door that leads onto the shop floor.
  It’s very dark. There are rows of clothes hanging from rails against the walls and various standing rails on the floor. The shop looks big but I can’t see the windows from here. I know that I’m in
New Look
. Of all the shops I could have gone into… I get a ladies fashion store, then I remember that they do men’s clothing too.
  I move deeper into the store, going very slowly. I crouch down and move between the rails. As I get to the middle of the store, I lie down and look towards the front of the store from under the clothes.
  I have spotted large plate glass windows with lights shining on mannequins that are wearing this season’s
must have
items.
  And, pressed against the windows from the street are the undead, many of them.
  The alarm has certainly attracted them. They are stacked up, staring inside, shuffling and moving about. I stay completely still. None of them are actually looking at me, or even in my direction.
  I decide to wait for a while to see if they will move off, but, after a few minutes, the hard floor starts to make me very uncomfortable, and, despite the warm summer, it feels quite cold.
  Moving backwards on my belly, slithering away out of sight, I stay low, until I am sure that the many clothes rails will keep me blocked.
  I move over to the side and check down the other end of the store. It appears to lead towards changing rooms and, judging by the size of the store, it must lead to the other door in the stairwell too. So this is all one shop! That makes me feel better.
  I go back towards the door of the stock room and stop on the way, seeing a rail of thick, woollen cardigans. They are women’s sizes: size 10 at the front and getting larger as they go back. I have no idea what size I am in women’s clothing - so I take one from the back.
  Back in the store room I put on the cardigan, but it’s massive on me, much too big; but it has a nice thick collar. I roll the sleeves up, until my hands are free from the material and then put the collar up. I probably look like a right idiot, but it’s a warm and comforting cardigan.
  I head into the nicely dark staff room and fill the kettle. As I switch it on I wonder again how long the electricity will last for. I find a large, chipped mug and put two big teaspoons of sugar in, then a tea bag. The fridge has a two-litre bottle of semi-skimmed milk and there is a loaf of bread on the middle shelf. Who keeps bread in the fridge? The bread is in date, and there is fat free margarine and orange marmalade too.
  A few minutes later and I have a steaming mug of sweet tea and two slices of toast. They are gone within seconds. The taste is amazing, and I realise how hungry I am. I keep going, toasting more bread, all then thickly spread with the marmalade, and I have another mug of tea.
  Eventually, I sit back, feeling full and content for the first time in ages. No, it’s not ages… this only started on Friday night, and it’s Saturday night now. It feels like weeks.
  I’ve already had countless lucky escapes but I have got to be more careful and think things through clearly. I have to get back to my parents and see if they have returned, then head for London to find my sister.
  For now though, I will rest a short while and wait for the undead to piss off.
  I lean forward and cross my arms on the table top. The thick cardigan is nice to rest my head on.

Just a few minutes, and I will get going.
  Just a few minutes…

I wake with a start, wondering where I am and have that slightly sick feeling that you get when you can’t immediately place your surroundings.
  I’ve dribbled on the cardigan as I slept. It looks like a slug has crawled across my sleeve, and I wipe at the wet saliva on my cheek. I really need to pee and the slightly too tight jeans are pressing into my bladder, which is very full from the tea I drank.