The Undead. The First Seven Days (22 page)

Dave immediately raises the rifle and takes aim.
  ‘NO!’
  He pauses for a second and drops the rifle down, then looks back at me.
  ‘They’re just kids…’
  ‘Okay.’
  Fuck, this man is cold; I swear he would have shot them as they ran away. The front tyres are blown out and the van is resting lower.
  ‘Grab the stuff, we’ll have to run for it.’
  We won’t get more than a few yards in the van with both tyres gone. Cartridges and ammo are shoved into the rucksacks. Dave goes round to the rear as I pull my rucksack on, fastening the waist and chest straps. The axe is there but I can’t carry it and two shotguns. I take the axe and drop the shaft down between my back and the bag. The large metal head catches on the top of the bag and holds steady. I tighten the chest straps, drawing it closer to my body. It might be cumbersome but it’s better than leaving it here.
  Dave is back with the other two shotguns; the rifle is strapped to his back, over the rucksack. He breaks both shotguns, shoves cartridges into the holes and slams them closed. We move round to the front of the van; the immense gathering of undead are nearly all turned and shuffling in our direction.
  If we go back, we’ll get brained by rocks and missiles from the bridge.
  To the right, there is a row of shops and stores already looted and smashed up. The windows are all smashed out and the doors are hanging off. We run towards them, sprinting as fast as we can with our heavy loads. As we reach the first door, Dave stops and turns back to the crowd.
  ‘You check. I’ll hold.’
  I run through a hair salon; big chairs facing cracked mirrors, combs and brushes are on the floor. A small sink has been smashed off the wall and is lying cracked in two parts.
  In the rear rooms, there is a back door made from solid wood. I pull the bolts back and try to heave it open but it has been locked with a key and will take too long to break through.
  ‘No good.’
  I run out and into the next one. Dave moves down and takes a kneeling position in the doorway, shotgun aimed into the horde. The store is a
Blockbusters
and the shelves are completely stripped, which strikes me as odd; the DVD’s aren’t in the display boxes but they have taken the discs from behind the counter too.
  A mental image strikes me of some feral kids, sitting in a room, matching the discs to their cases.
  The back door is open, hanging on one hinge; someone has taken the time and effort to batter it open.
  ‘In here, Dave.’

He comes through, trying to close the front door behind him but it’s too badly damaged and won’t shut. He grabs at the heavy shelves, trying to drag them to the doorway but they are fixed to the ground and don’t budge.
He gives up and joins me at the back. This area is the same as the front with litter and debris everywhere; a small road leading left and right.
  The back of a factory building is across the road, presenting a solid brick wall all down the road.
  We head left and keep moving.

We follow the road as it bends to the right into a residential area of small terraced houses - a cheap rental area - already rough and grotty anyway, it is looking even worse now.
  There are small streets leading off to the left, they must loop round the back of the barricade and, seeing as Dave has just killed several of them, I think we should try and avoid it.
  We keep going, until we have passed several of the side streets, then we turn left and head down one of them. We get about halfway down and hear a loud bang from behind us. Dave instantly drops down and gets behind the back of a parked car. I look around to see a group of men running in our direction, one of them is holding something in his hand, another loud bang and I see his arm is jerked up. I drop down and get behind the car with Dave.
  ‘Fuck, they’ve got guns! Fucking handguns! Where did they get them from?’
  Dave leans the shotgun against the back of the car and pulls the rifle round, he chambers a bullet and raises the rifle to his shoulder as he stands up; I can see the group through the car windows.
  Dave fires and the lead man with the handgun is jerked backwards and drops to the ground, the others scatter into the road, dodging behind parked cars.
  Dave pulls the bolt and steps out into the road, the rifle darting back and forth, as he scans the area.

They are shouting to each other with loud, panicked voices. The shooting man is still down, unmoving.
  Dave starts walking back towards their direction. A head pops up and Dave fires. I see the head explode from here; blood and matter spraying out as he is flung backwards against another car. His body slumps down.
  Dave rams the bolt and keeps moving, his movements are fast, but controlled; the rifle looks steady in his hands.
  ‘Go down the other side.’
  Dave motions with his left hand towards the first man we shot, indicating for me to head down the side we just came up.
  I put one of the shotguns next to the one Dave left and start moving down.
  My chest is heaving and I can feel my hands shaking, I try to copy his stance and keep the shotgun raised to my shoulder, but I keep low.
  ‘I’LL KILL YOU ALL…’ Dave bellows out, in that drill sergeant voice again.
  ‘I’LL KILL YOUR FAMILIES - YOUR WIVES AND YOUR CHILDREN.’
  They starburst out and start running back, shouting to each other. Dave drops one, shooting him in the back and he sprawls out on the ground.

‘Please, please don’t shoot,’ asks a pleading voice in front of me.

I look down and see a young man cowering in the gap between two cars, he is on his knees and his hands are covering the back of his dropped down head. He keeps looking up at me; tears falling down his cheeks.
  ‘Please mate, please don’t kill me.’
  Dave is there, standing behind him, the rifle aimed at his head.
  ‘Are you armed?’ Dave demands from the cowering man.
  ‘Please don’t shoot, please.’ His voice is begging and pleading.
  Dave kicks him hard in the back, knocking him forward on the ground.
  ‘ARE YOU ARMED?’
  ‘No, no I’m not. I swear.’
  ‘HANDS ON YOUR HEAD, INTERLOCK YOUR FINGERS.’
  ‘Please, please.’
   Dave kicks him, again.
  ‘DO IT NOW! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD, INTERLOCK YOUR FINGERS.’
  The man responds, quickly putting his hands to the back of his head.
  ‘STAND UP… SLOWLY’
  ‘Oh fuck… please don’t. Please don’t.’
  He slowly stands up; he’s just a skinny kid, maybe eighteen years old. There are tattoos up his arms and on his neck; the obligatory earring hanging from his ear. Dave looks at me and nods firmly towards the boy. I shrug my shoulders, not understanding what he wants me to do.
  ‘Would you search him please, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Oh right… of course.’
  Dave steps forward and pushes the end of the rifle into the boys neck, which sets him off whimpering again. He squeezes his eyes shut and stands quivering.
  I step forward and start patting him down, he is only wearing tracksuit bottoms and a tee-shirt and I’m finished in seconds.
  ‘Check the waistband please, Mr Howie.’
  I run my fingers round the waistband.
  ‘He’s clear,’ I try to sound
military
, but just feel silly.
  ‘MOVE.’
  Dave pushes him in the back, over to the side of the pavement. The boy turns and Dave shoves him hard against the wall and then nods at me.
  ‘All yours, Mr Howie.’
 
All mine? What am I supposed to do with him
?
  ‘Er… where are you from?’
  ‘What?’ He stammers, still terrified.
  ‘I said… where are you from?’
  ‘Carter Street.’
  ‘Is that where the barricade is?’
  ‘Yes. Please don’t kill me… I didn’t want to come but they made me.’
  ‘Who made you?’
  ‘My Dad - that’s his brother, my uncle.’
  ‘Who is?’

The boy nods at the body on the ground, the one that Dave shot first.
  ‘That’s your uncle?’
  ‘Yeah.’
  ‘Who’s your Dad?’
  ‘John Jones?’

He says it like it means something.
  ‘Who is he?’
  ‘Everyone knows him, he runs the area, he’s
the boss.
’ The boy’s tones grow more confident.
  ‘What does that mean?’
  ‘Everyone knows him… even the police leave him alone.’
  ‘And you’re his son?’
  ‘Yeah.’
  ‘So he sent you after us?’
  ‘Yeah.’
  ‘Why?’
  ‘Cos of what you did…’

He is staring at me now - the confidence is coming back.
  ‘What did we do?’
  ‘You killed his mates, no one does that.’
  ‘His mates? Oh you mean the men in that room? We were trying to help that woman, why was she pushed out?’
  ‘She didn’t do as she was told. Dad said we got to keep a firm grip of ‘em.’
  ‘What’s your name?’
  ‘Jim Jones, ain’t it.’
  ‘What wouldn’t she do, Jim?’
  ‘Fucking bitch, thieved.’
  ‘I’m sorry… what?’
  ‘The fucking bitch thieved, she stole from my Dad - didn’t she?’
  ‘What did she steal?’
  ‘Milk.’
  ‘Milk? Why didn’t she have her own milk?’
  ‘We got everything in the house, Dad said we need to ration it.’
  ‘So you took everyone’s food and put it in your house?’
  ‘Yeah, fucking right.’
  ‘Why?’
  ‘Cos the greedy fuckers will have the lot.’
  ‘Why did she steal milk? Why not something else?’
  I can already guess why she took milk, but I want him to say it.
  ‘Dunno’
  ‘Why did she take the milk?’
  ‘I dunno.’ The words are drawn out and sullen.
  ‘Yes, you do, Jim Jones. You do know why… so tell me why she took the milk?’
  I can feel anger building in me; the arrogance and cocky attitude is winding me up. I can just imagine this little shit bullying his way through life, knowing his Dad is the local big man.
  ‘I don’t fucking know, do I?’
  ‘Jim, I will ask you once more, why did she take the milk?’
  My voice is very low and sounds hoarse.
  ‘I fucking said that I don’t fucking know.’ He is defiant and staring at me hard.
  I slap him across the face with my left hand, hard and stinging. Then, I swap the shotgun to my left hand and use my right to take a fistful of his hair and pull his head back.
  ‘You listen to me, you little cunt. I don’t fucking care who your dad is. Right now, there is me and him and that’s it!’
  He is squirming in my grip, staring rebelliously at me. I can see anger flashing in his eyes and I head butt him square in the face, driving my forehead into his nose. It was an instinctive reaction, fury erupting in me from his arrogant and cocky manner. He drops down and puts his hands to his nose, blood pouring out between his fingers. I wrench his head up again.
  My own forehead really stings, I had no idea it hurt that much when you head butt someone. I want to rub it, but don’t want to do it in front of him.
  ‘Why did she take the milk?’
  ‘Her kids… she took it for her kids.’
  ‘You forced a mother out into that lot, because she took milk for her kids? You tell me now, why? Why did you do that?’
  ‘Dad said to…’
  ‘Did you help?’
  ‘No, no I swear I didn’t.’
  ‘You are fucking lying to me. Your dad is the big man, so - you’re the big man too. You fucking helped, didn’t you?’
  ‘No, no I didn’t.’
  ‘Lie again and see what happens.’
  ‘I had to…l Dad told me to.’
  ‘What happened when she went back in? You killed her, didn’t you?’
  ‘
They
did, not me. I swear it wasn’t me that did it…’
  ‘Take this.’ I hand the shotgun to Dave and he steps forward and takes it, no emotion on his face.
  ‘You fucking little cunt.’ I punch the boy in the face, hard to the side of his cheek. I rain blows into him, fists pounding his head, he drops down and I kick him several times in the stomach and ribs. I step back, breathing hard. The fury is taking over.
  ‘Get up.’
  He staggers to his feet; his face is bloodied and bruised. I take the shotgun back from Dave.
  ‘You are going to lead us out of here, do you understand?’
  ‘Yeah.’
  ‘Its yes - not yeah.’
  ‘Okay, yes.’
  ‘Now walk.’
    I push him forward, down the street, and he staggers, then gains his composure and starts walking slowly.
  ‘Take your clothes off,’ Dave says to the boy.
  ‘What?’
  ‘Take your clothes off.’
  I look at Dave, confused at the strange order.
  ‘It’s hard to run away when you’re naked.’
  ‘Okay, you heard him - strip off.’
  ‘No, please… please don’t do that.’
  Dave shoves the rifle into his face, pushing him hard against the wall.
  ‘Now.’
  ‘Okay, okay.’
  The boy starts stripping, taking his shirt off first, then his shoes and trousers. He is wearing filthy white boxer shorts, his skinny legs poking out of the bottom.
  ‘Please, I won’t run, I swear.’
  ‘Off. Now.’
  He slowly bends down and pulls his boxer shorts off, covering his privates with his hands.
  ‘Nice skid marks, Jim Jones. Did your dad tell you to do them too - try wiping your arse next time - you filthy little shit.’
  A few days ago this act would have sickened me, if someone explained this situation to me in the staff canteen I would deny that it was right and say no person should ever be treated like that - that we have law and order and everyone is entitled to respect and dignity.