The Undead. The First Seven Days (18 page)

I was dreaming, but I can’t remember what about. There was something happening, but it has gone from my mind now. The room is light, so it must still be daytime. The light in here is soft, filtered through curtains, giving the room a warm glow. There are vivid images from earlier when we fought against the horde of undead in Boroughfare’s town centre. There were so many bodies left lying and broken - split apart - limbs and shredded carcasses, innards spilling out onto the pavement, and so much blood.

The blood surprises me; I thought that the undead wouldn’t bleed. If they died and then came back then shouldn’t they still be dead? The heart stops when the body dies… if the heart stops then the blood cannot be pumped round the body and - if the blood cannot be pumped, then why are they bleeding so much?

I saw Dave cutting throats open, severing the artery and the blood was spraying out everywhere.
  I lack his finesse and precision, so I didn’t manage to slit that many throats open, more of a blunt trauma man – even if I do say so myself. But the axe was cleaving skulls open and chopping bits off all over the place and the blood was coming out. It looked like blood too, normal red blood; hot and sticky. What else did I use? Oh yeah, the sledgehammer. That was amazing, but really only a one trick weapon, great for an overhead smash into the skull to explode the head, I suppose it would be good for creating space, it could be swung round, but then it’s too heavy and cumbersome and will cause the arms to tire quickly. The axe is lighter.

Then there were the two lump hammers, again they were effective at one on one, or even a couple of them, but against several undead they lack the range. The chainsaw was bloody amazing - really, truly amazing and I regret not bringing it with us, a few people armed with chainsaws could destroy tons of undead, but again they are heavy and too reliant on fuel. If one part breaks or jams it would be rendered useless. No, unless we can find guns then I will stick to the axe for hand combat.
  The thought of using the phrase “hand combat” shocks me. I’m a supermarket manager, not a soldier. What do I know about combat or fighting techniques? Dave on the other hand, is not all he seems. He said he was in the Army for fourteen years, but he wouldn’t say anything else about his time in the service. I’ve met loads of ex-service people; quite a lot of them had seen action in the Middle East. Some had physical scars; wounds that were visible - others had scars that weren’t so noticeable. Post traumatic something or other… that’s what they call it. But Dave, he doesn’t betray any feelings or emotions. The only time I have seen him give anything away was last night in the supermarket, when I told him he should get away from there. He clearly had nowhere to go, no family or friends. The thought of taking away his routine must have scared him. He could have run or even closed the doors; every staff member is shown how to close and shut off the automatic doors, in case of emergency. Dave didn’t shut them though; he stayed on the shop floor. He even killed the rest of the staff, as they were turned into undead. I wonder if any of them fought alongside him until they were taken down, maybe Dave didn’t hesitate but killed them instantly.
  Routine must be important to him, having someone in a position of
perceived
authority anyway. Fourteen years of army life must have moulded him. But then, other long-serving army people I have known weren’t like that. He’s only been at the supermarket for twelve months, but even during that time he would follow the same routine; getting to work precisely fifteen minutes before his shift start time and being out and working exactly five minutes before his shift was due.

We got back here early in the morning and it was obvious that my parents hadn’t returned; that’s when the rage came on me. I have never had any kind of feeling even come close to that before. I didn’t even know that people could have such feelings. No, that’s naivety; serial killers and murderers must be driven by emotions like that. But then, the word
emotion
doesn’t feel right either, that wasn’t an emotion like being sad or happy or like the hurt you feel after the end of a relationship.
  What I felt was something else, something deeper, a base state of being, an instinct to exact revenge and hurt those that hurt me - not with words but with action.

Self-reflection is uneasy at the best of times, now it is almost impossible. I have become a serial killer!

No… I mustn’t think like that, they weren’t people. They looked like the people they had been, but the body is just a carrier for the infection, an infection that makes them want to rip open human flesh with their teeth; they are driven to pass that infection on.
  This thought process has alarmed me, if they can bleed and what possesses them is an infection, then maybe they will recover. What if it was just a forty-eight hour bug? Jesus, they might recover of their own accord, and I’ve already slain shit loads of them, plus I burnt down a village. What will I say if they all go back to normal? “Oops… sorry about that, didn’t mean to cause genocide. I thought you were all zombies but that was my mistake. Never mind - no harm done”.
  Maybe there is a cure, an antidote, or someone who is immune? But even if there is, what can I do? I must assume that this is here to stay. I have to stick with the original plan: find my parents and my sister and get to the Forts.

There is a sudden pain inside me as I realise it’s too late to find my parents; the fact they are gone hasn’t registered or been accepted yet.

With my heart feeling heavy I get out of bed and cross to the window, outside is lovely. It’s mid July and very warm; the air almost looks hazy with the scorching sun. I glance at my watch, it’s almost 3 p.m. I’ve had a few hours of sleep but my body is aching; muscles are hurting from all of the exercise in the last day or so. That fight this morning has left me drained and I just want to rest, sit down and watch old movies, drink tea and do nothing.

I look at the light bulb; the light went out as I fell into bed, the power must have gone off. I flick the switch several times, but get no response. The hallway light is the same. It could just be a fuse. I go downstairs and into the kitchen. Dave is sitting at the counter, drinking what looks like coffee. I cross to the fridge and open the door, but the light doesn’t come on.
  ‘Powers gone.’
  ‘How did you make the coffee then?’
  ‘Gas.’
  There is a saucepan on the gas hob, half filled with water. A plastic bottle of milk is resting in the washing-up bowl, which is filled with water and ice cubes. The water in the pan is still very hot. I make coffee and lean against the counter. I feel spaced out, like there is no order of sense to my thoughts.

Dave looks freshly shaven; his clothes tucked in and smart. I look down at myself, suddenly self-conscious that I’m standing here in just boxer shorts. I hardly know this man. We may have commenced war on a massed horde of evil undead together, but still, I shouldn’t be walking round in my underwear in front of him - that just isn’t right.

My clothes are folded neatly on top of the tumble dryer.
  ‘At least the clothes dried before the power went off then.’
  ‘Almost, I put them outside.’
  ‘What in the garden? On the washing line? Bloody hell, Dave! Thank you.’
  ‘S’okay, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Dave, you don’t have to call me Mr Howie anymore, Howie is fine.’
  ‘Okay.’
  He won’t call me Howie, I know that.

I take the clothes and go into the lounge to dress. The thought of getting dressed in front of him feels weird. There is a road atlas on the shelf, my Dad loved technology and would always have the latest gadget: new computer, latest phones - but despite all of that he would lecture me that society has become too over-reliant on technology. “… it has its uses and should be enjoyed, but not taken for granted”. I listened but never really took it in. Looking at the atlas now reminds me of what a careful and prepared man he was.

I take the atlas back into the kitchen and onto the counter top. I stand the other side, opposite Dave, and start to flick through the pages, until I find the South East.
  Brighton is east of here, London is north; about two hours on a good day. The roads should be clear and we can make good progress into the city. The radio message I heard said London was infested and to stay away. London is very densely populated - there must be millions of people living there - and the infection would have spread like wild fire. It should be easy to get to the city, but getting
through
the city will be another matter entirely. Bloody hell, we’d need a tank!

‘Dave.’
  He looks up at me.
  ‘Nothing.’
  It was a stupid thought. No… maybe not.
  ‘Where could we get a tank from?’
  He doesn’t even flinch.
  ‘Salisbury.’
  ‘Where is that?’
  ‘I don’t know, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Are they hard to drive?’
  ‘I don’t have a licence.’
  ‘They must be hard, how about those armoured vehicles?’
  ‘APC’s.’
  ‘Yeah, them. They must be like cars to drive.’
  He shrugs.
  ‘Do they have those APC things at Salisbury too?’
  ‘Yes.’
  ‘Okay, so we need to get into London to get my sister, but I heard an emergency broadcast that said London is infested and to stay away, so I reckon we should get to Salisbury, nick an APS and get going.’
  ‘An APC.’
  ‘What?’
  ‘You said APS - it’s an APC. Armoured Personnel Carrier.’
  ‘Oh, right… sorry. We get an APC and try for London. I mean
I
need to go to London, I didn’t mean to assume that you were coming with me.’
  ‘I’ll come.’
  ‘Great! So Salisbury is here…’ I said, as I pointed to the area around Salisbury. ‘And we are here. It should take us around two hours to get there, I think, and its 3 p.m. now. It gets dark at about half nine –so if we leave now, we should make it before nightfall.’
  ‘Okay.’
    No questions. No speculation. Not even any doubt, just “okay”.

We start getting ready and I take some plastic carrier bags from a drawer and empty all of the perishable food into them. Then the tinned goods and anything else that can be eaten goes into the bags. I go out to the
Tesco
van, which looks a mess. The white front end is covered in blood and gore, the passenger side wing mirror is missing… driving back, I didn’t notice that. I open the rear doors and inside is spotless. The delivery manager maintained very high standards; regular spot checks were carried out by the higher ups and any discrepancies were dealt with severely. I put the food into the rear. Dave brings out bedding from the spare rooms and puts it in. He has also found a gas lamp from the garage. Why didn’t I think of things like this? I said that I would plan and be more careful. I chide myself for not thinking of such simple things and, to make amends, I go back in and take some mugs and plates and add them to the pile.
  Within minutes, we are ready, and I take my two new axes and get into the cabin. Dave joins me with more knife handles poking out of his rucksack. It looks like he has pretty much taken all of the knives from the magnetic strip in the kitchen.
  ‘I like knives.’
  He must have seen me staring at them.

I start the engine and am about to pull off when I realise that I don’t know my sisters address. Idiot! How can I not know where my sister lives, but then we have mobile phones and email so we stay in constant contact - I never even thought to take her address. I rush back into the house and, by the telephone, is mum’s old address book; I remember this from when I was young - hard backed and brightly coloured with flower depictions. Inside, there is a page for every letter of the alphabet. I flick through, seeing names crossed out and new ones added as people have moved about over the years. The memory stings me and I quickly flick to “S”. There it is, “Sarah – London”. I kiss the book and offer a silent prayer to my mother, still taking care of me - even now. Back outside and into the van, the book goes into my rucksack and then I think better of it, and give it to Dave.
  ‘Can you look after this please mate, my sister’s address is inside and I can’t afford to lose it, her name is Sarah - her address is under “Sarah, London”, if anything happens to me…’
  He takes the book, like I’m passing him a priceless antique, and he brings out a small hand towel from his bag, wraps the book and places it gently into his bag.

It feels wrong to be heading away from my sister. She could be in trouble right now. The note that mum left, said that she was locked in her flat and was safe… but a city like London is anything but safe. A
Tesco
home delivery van won’t be enough; we need something strong and armoured. If a little coastal town like Boroughfare can amass a few hundred undead then think what a city centre will be like?
  And why did they all huddle together like that?

There was a man driving a
cash in transit
van through the streets when it all started, he lured many of them away from the residential areas but there were far more there than he could cope with.

In Littleton, they all grouped together in the village square - there were no other survivors that I was aware of. Maybe that was the last place they took a survivor down and stayed there, hopeful of another one, or maybe a survivor got away from there and they stayed in the last place of contact, like when I ran through the precinct into the club - they stayed outside those doors for a long time.
  But then, in Boroughfare, it looked like more were joining the crowd, there must be something that passes between them, an alert state? So if one senses prey then they all join in, and the signal passes, until they are coming from all around.
  This might be something we could use; draw them together and create a safe passage - like the
cash in transit
driver - but on a bigger scale… a much bigger scale. How would we do that? I don’t know the roads in London well enough to know where to draw them to, we could easily get ourselves trapped or stuck in a far worse situation if we start pissing about, trying to be clever.
  They change during the hours of darkness too. If we had gone back to Boroughfare during the night, we wouldn’t have stood a chance. They are easy to kill during the day - slow with very poor reflexes - that’s the best time to move through them. Hide at night and move during daylight. There might not be enough time to get to Sarah today - by the time we have found a suitable vehicle and then got into London it could be late evening. We don’t have satellite navigation, so finding her address in the city will be hard enough. If only I could get a message to her, tell her to wait. Hang on, sat nav might work… the mobile networks are down but do sat nav’s use the same network systems as mobiles? They all work off satellites and something to do with GPS - maybe they are still online?
  I go through the radio stations in the van, flicking through all of the preset ones first, and then manually through the frequencies… the message is gone. I didn’t make a note of the frequency setting from the
Micra
. I check FM, MW and LW but get only static, hissing or just silence.