The Undead. The First Seven Days (37 page)

Simon kept backing away and shouting out to the soldier and then he saw the red, bloodshot eyes and yelled out. The other recruits came downstairs; they had been watching the exercise from an upstairs window. They stopped and stared in horror as Simon frantically tried to dodge the badly injured soldier.
  ‘Blowers, what the fuck, mate?’
  ‘Fucking help me then, don’t just stand there.’
  ‘What’s he doing, is he all right? Oi, mate, are you okay?’
  The undead soldier turned at the new voices and advanced towards them.

Alex Cooke was the furthest away, a fact that saved his life, as the undead lurched at the nearest recruit and sank his teeth into his face, pulling him to the ground.
  ‘Fuck, fuck what’s he fucking doing?’ Cooke screamed at Blowers.
  Blowers darted forward and kicked at the soldiers head, making him fall down. The soldier immediately tried to get up and rolled over, his face pressing against the arse cheeks of the recruit he toppled. The undead soldier then buried his face into the soft flesh and bite down; eliciting more screams from the recruit.
  ‘You dirty fuck, don’t bite his arse! He is biting his fucking arse.’

Cooke stands, in shock, as Blowers kicks down at the head and keeps kicking, until the undead lies motionless. Blowers then bends down and tries to pull the other recruit out from under the body.
  ‘He’s fucking dead.’ Blowers looks up to Cooke.

They both gaze out of the windows and at the carnage taking place outside.
  ‘I’m out of here,’ Cooke starts to run, followed by Blowers.

They both run to the end, dodging round fighting soldiers and bodies on the ground.  

Shots and loud explosions were still sounding out, as the soldiers tried desperately to fight back against the increasing number of undead. The other recruits were at the safe zone, watching with fear; some of them were crying.
  ‘What do we do?’ Tucker cries out, having just seen Blowers running towards them.
  ‘Fucking leg it now… get out of here, quickly,’ a soldier runs towards them, waving at them to run but an undead grabs him from the side and pulls him down onto the ground, biting into his face. Then more undead dive into him, biting and gnashing as the soldier screams at the recruits.
  ‘RUN, FUCKING RUN.’
  The recruits start moving away, then, as one, they turn and run into the darkness. They run along the road for a few minutes, then see more fighting and zombie soldiers ahead of them.
  ‘Off the road quick… this way,’ Blowers heads into the darkness of the plains.

They keep running for several minutes and then slow down to a jog, until the noise of the fighting and the screams are left behind.
  They take cover behind a low hill, then sit on the ground, heavily panting.
  ‘What the fuck was that?’ asked trainee recruit, Roland McKinney. He was addressing his question to Julian Talley, who was sitting next to him.
  ‘I don’t fucking  know.’
  ‘Is that part of the exercise?’ asked Tucker.
  ‘No, it fucking isn’t, you thick cunt,’ Darren Smith shouts at him, clearly panicking.
  ‘What do we do?’ voices McKinney.
  ‘Let’s just wait here and keep low,’ replied Blowers.
  They try to get their breath back, terrified and sweating in the hot dark night.
  A loud engine roars above them and a long metal barrel comes into view, followed by a huge army tank that rises up on the hill behind them. The tank teeters on the top and starts down straight towards them. They scatter off in different directions, but one is too slow; tripping over and getting caught under the tracks. He is pulverised instantly; his body bursting apart.

The recruits scream as the tank goes over their friend. Then they see a man sticking out of the hole in the top of the tank; another man is pinning him over the edge of the hole and biting into the back of his neck.

The tank roars past them and keeps going toward the village.
  ‘Did you fucking see that?’ Cooke screams out.
  ‘We need to keep going,’ Blowers shouts, in response.
  A few rush towards the broken body that is left from the tank assault. 

‘He’s gone, leave him, we need to go… now,’ Blowers shouts out and starts running further into the plains.

The others respond, hastening to catch up with him.
  ‘Where are we going?’ Cooke shouts to Blowers.
  ‘I don’t fucking know, just keep running.’
  ‘Which way is the compound?’ Talley shouts, but none of them know and they just keep running.
  After ten minutes, they see lights and head towards them.

There is a base set up there with some more tanks that are stationary. Camouflage netting is stretched over a field table; maps and papers on the table top. The recruits see movement between the lights and run forward, shouting and screaming for help. Then they see people running towards them and Blowers and Cooke, at the front, notice the oncoming soldiers’ red eyes.
  ‘Fuck,’ they both shout and run left and right.

The oncoming, undead soldiers run into the group and take down the nearest recruits who scream and beg for help as they are bitten and savaged.

Talley and McKinney run towards a recruit who is being pinned down. He is thrashing against an undead that is gorging on his face. They both kick and punch at the zombie who falls away. Then they help the injured recruit to his feet and start running away from the lights.

They get away and stop to rest in the dark, still hearing the screams from behind them.  

Soon, they are joined by more of the trainees as they lower the injured man down onto the ground. They feel for a pulse and check for a breath, from the inert body.
  ‘He’s fucking dead,’ Talley cries out.

McKinney drops down and starts doing chest compressions.
  ‘Someone, get some air into him,’ McKinney shouts at the watching men, after a few minutes of pumping his chest. A recruit drops down and uses his sleeve to wipe the blood away from the man’s mouth, then leans over and starts blowing air into his lungs. The injured man surges upright and the man giving the kiss of life thrashes at him, as his lips are savaged by the newly made zombie.

McKinney jumps back and they all start kicking at the man they were trying to save just moments ago. He refuses to budge and keeps sinking his teeth further into the man’s face.
  ‘Fuck this,’ McKinney says, before running away and the rest follow him, going deeper into the plains of the tank training ground.

As that first night progresses, they lose several more of their new colleagues, as zombies lurch out of the darkness and take them down.
  The plains are dark as they have no ambient light; the ground is rutted and undulating from years of accommodating the immensely heavy vehicles.
  On one occasion, the ground dropped down in front of them and they fell into a small group of undead that were stooped over a freshly killed body. One of the terrified recruits tripped over the body and fell down with a yell and the zombies were on him instantly, devouring his exposed skin.
  By Saturday morning, they were exhausted, filthy and very, very  lost. They tried resting in amongst the hills and Blowers posted lookout’s to keep watch. The men were told to shout out when an undead appeared in the grounds and they would all run off again and drop down when they couldn’t run anymore.

During the afternoon, they found a prone body. They looked around, but couldn’t see any of the zombies, so they approached the body and saw that it was a zombie; groaning and twitching, but unable to get up or move. The back of its neck was severely injured and there was blood all down the camouflage clothes.
  ‘He’s got a water bottle on his belt,’ Cooke said, looking at the body.
  ‘Fuck! We need to drink… someone go and get it,’ Darren Smith said, turning to look at the group, his eyes settling on Tucker.
  ‘Why me?’ Tucker asked, guessing that he had been chosen.
  ‘You’re in the catering corps, so you’re in charge of supplies,’ Talley said to him.   

Tucker looked around at the faces, hoping for a reprieve. But, with none coming, he slowly edged forward to the body.
  ‘Come up from behind him,’ Blowers called out.
  ‘Yeah, I bet you’ve done that before,’ Cooke shouts and a few of them snigger.
  Tucker reaches the body, gingerly stretches out and pulls the bottle from the undead’s belt. Then, standing up and grinning, he holds the bottle high.
  ‘Tucker watch out,’ Talley shouts as the undead rolls quickly towards Tuckers feet.  

Tucker staggers backwards and trips, going down onto his arse, before scrabbling up with a whimper and running back to the men.
  As Tucker unscrewed the bottle’s cap and took a sip, the rest of the men watched intently; making sure that he only took a sip, before handing the bottle onto the next man.  

Talley was the last to drink.
  ‘Is there any left, Talley?’ Blowers asked him.
  ‘Yeah, not much though, we’ll save it for later - that okay with everyone?’
  They all looked longingly at the bottle, but nod in agreement.
  The day is blisteringly hot and the sun is beating down on the plain. The men find no shade and they sweat freely; rapidly losing water and dehydrating.
  As night falls on Saturday they hear what sounds like wolves howling into the night sky. The sound comes from all around them and chills them to the bone and so they get up and run again. The undead zombie soldiers chase them relentlessly through the hills and valleys and it’s only when one recruit falls down and is set upon, that the others can get away.

They keep going throughout the night, until they can go no further and exhaustion makes them fall down.
  They stay safe for a few hours, until one of them screams out as his neck is bitten by his friend - the others run off and again lose the undead in the gloom of the night.
  By Sunday morning, they need sleep and so they nestle between a small collection of low hills; lookouts posted and rotated every hour.
  That afternoon they spot the undead again in the distance and have to keep moving.
  The thirty that started off are picked off one by one until, by Sunday night, there are just twelve remaining.
  As the sun came up on Monday morning, they saw the road in the distance and followed alongside it, still keeping low and using the hills to put spotters on and check the skyline.
  They have learnt more survival instincts in these two days than they ever would have during the two week training camp.
  Eventually, after trudging for many miles, they see the compound buildings in the distance and work their way over.
  They get closer and see the hundreds of undead shuffling between the buildings; most of them are grouped in the drill square and move aimlessly about.

The trainee recruits watch and look for gaps, talking amongst themselves about the change in behaviour from the night time. They slowly creep forward and see a chance to get into a building, by the near side of the drill square. In single file, they inch forward, closer and closer, until they can see the door.
  Then, as one, they burst out and sprint the final distance, legs burning and lungs heaving for that last final stretch. As they reach the door, the closest undead turn and start shuffling towards them. The last recruit gets through the door and slams it shut, just as the whole horde from the drill square start moving across. Within minutes, the building is surrounded and they are standing around a cold water tap in the toilet room, quenching their raging thirst and then collapsing down onto the floor.
 

2
nd
Lieutenant Galloway-Gibbs comes down the stairs, holding his head and clutching the handrail, stopping when he sees the filthy men dressed in civilian clothing… before long, they are all in the classroom.

We stand and look at the lowered metal bar stretched across the road and the small sentry hut next to it.

  It has taken us several hours to find the road to the army training centre, but, after many wrong turns, and avoiding small groups of undead, we found it.
  ‘Is this it?’ I look at Dave.
  ‘Yes, I think so.’
  ‘It doesn’t look like much…’ I was expecting something more high-tech than this. ‘It looks like something from World War Two.’
  ‘It probably is.’
  ‘Bloody hell, on the movies they have big electric gates and cameras and stuff.’

  Dave just looks at me silently for a few minutes and I shrug back at him.

  The metal bar stretches across the road and the guard hut is just a small, wooden built structure with glass windows and a large doorway.
  ‘So… where’s the guard?’ I ask Dave.
  ‘Should be there,’ he points at the empty hut.

  We walk closer, leaving the unmarked police car on the road. Dave had told me not to bring a weapon out and he made sure to leave his knives in the car. We approach the hut and check inside - but it’s definitely empty. There is a high wire fence, topped with razor wire running off in both directions and I can see buildings in the distance.
  ‘So where’s the switch for this thing? I ask Dave, as I mooch about in the hut, then start examining the end of the metal bar.

  Dave walks over and pushes the heavy end down and the smaller end lifts up with ease.
  ‘It’s manual.’
  ‘Oh, right. Well… are we driving in or walking? I personally think driving - so that we can get away if something horrible happens, which it invariably will. It seems to happen every half a bloody hour!’
  ‘Okay, we’ll drive.’