The Undead. The First Seven Days (53 page)

Dave gives me a thumbs up as they leave the field and it’s safe for McKinney to continue. The GPMG starts up again and, within seconds, they are all dead - or at least down and unable to get back up from their awful injuries.
  ‘That was fucking amazing, did you see them explode? I fucking love blowing stuff up,’ Darren Smith says excitedly, as they walk back to the Saxon and load up into the rear.
  ‘Are we going to stop at every village on the way, Sir?’ Blowers shouts to me.
  ‘It would be nice, but we don’t have the time, mate,’ I reply, thinking how everyone is calling me Sir or Mr Howie now. I’m just a shift manager for a supermarket, how the hell did I end up leading a squadron of zombie killers across the country?

________________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal
:

The infection recognises this group of resisters that keep cutting it down. It watches the one they call Howie who is standing further away, watching as the hosts are destroyed and the infection is once again diminished.

  The infection now controls billions of hosts across the world, so these handful of losses do not impact greatly, but the infection feels the loss and although it does not have emotions or feelings, it has an understanding that this must be stopped.
  The resistance fighters grow stronger and their numbers increase, as they join together and wreak devastation during the day time. They use bigger and better tools to aid their killing and find new ways to destroy them. The infection knows, from the chemicals inside the hosts, that it should be feeling anger and it begins to understand what revenge means. It continues to experiment on the few host bodies across the world that it keeps isolated to practise with.
  Those few hosts, separated from the hordes, suffer incredible amounts of torture as the infection floods them with the chemicals it learns to produce. The hosts scream in pain and collapse on the floor with rigid tension, when the pain becomes too much. They dance and jump around and move quicker and quicker, as the infection learns to control the flow of electrical impulses to the tendons, nerves and muscles.

  They break down and cry when they are filled with a sudden overwhelming sense of sadness and loss, weeping uncontrollably and pounding their fists into their heads in desperation. Then they suddenly burst up and start giggling with glee; the giggles become louder, until they are laughing uncontrollably with the sudden switch in chemicals coursing through their bodies.
  The chemical flow is switched again and the laughing stops; they become suddenly serious and stare hard into the distance as the infection pumps the blood and makes them feel anger - then the anger increases, until they are filled with a burning rage. A rage that needs to be fed with violence and an urge to destroy everything around it.
  The infection feels this rage through the hosts body and knows this is something it can use.
  The practise hosts are pumped full of this deadly hormone and they are released from control to do as they wish and they move with lightning speed to pound and destroy anything near them. Those that are alone, without access to inanimate objects turn on themselves, as the blind fury possesses the - they gauge their skin and bite fingers off, then pummel their own bodies with vicious blows, breaking ribs and knee joints.
  Some of the control hosts are near other host bodies and they turn on them with an amazing ferocity. They attack and kill the other hosts with an incredible strength and the infection allows them to continue, watching through many eyes: the attackers, the witnesses and the victims.

  The rage is too strong though and the control hosts spend too long on one body, ripping it apart with their bare hands and teeth, shredding the flesh and pulling the insides out, to throw them down on the ground - so they can be stamped upon. The control hosts hurt themselves to the point that they cannot function and drop down to the floor - being so unable to cause the destruction they crave, they turn on themselves and rip their own bodies apart.
  The infection has found something here; something it can use, but it has to learn to harness this power. So, as the first control hosts are killed by their own demented actions, the infection takes more control hosts and, in every land, there are single zombies that suddenly stop rolling their heads and groaning. They look forward and intelligence comes back into their eyes -  as they step away from the hordes they are with, to stand alone.

_______________________________

Sarah wakes on the sofa, the sobbing and crying had left her feeling drained and she slept fitfully for a few hours, with horrific images coursing through her sleeping mind.
  What she experienced has shocked her to the core and a deep feeling of sadness, loss and desperation overwhelm her. She doesn’t know how long she can keep going; unable to leave her apartment and struggling to survive on just the few tins of food she has left.
  She paces through her apartment, which helps her to think and forces her mind to work rationally. She can now use work skills to break the problems down into small chunks.
  ‘What do we know?’ She starts speaking to herself as she would at work when faced with a difficult or complex matter.
  ‘I’m on the 14
th
floor and I only saw them on the 21
st
floor. There were no signs of them on any floors between here and the 21
st
floor. Now… there is one on the 20
th
floor. He did not see which floor I ran to, so, unless he can smell me, he cannot find me and I was soaked with water - which will remove any smells. But then I did leave a water trail behind me. Okay… so he could find me. But there were no signs of them on the other floors. I have only a few tins of food left, but plenty of water - so I can survive - but it will get very hard. Priorities... I need more food. If they are dead zombies then they cannot survive forever without food or water - they have been outside in the street now for days and I haven’t seen them eat or drink anything. So, I need to eat and wait for them to die, or die again, or just fuck off and leave me alone. But, in order for me to survive, I need food and that means going back out there for more supplies.’ She stands still, as she realises what must be done. She nods to herself with quiet resolution.
  ‘I have to get more food. Going up is no good, so this time I will go down. I also need weapons.’ She rushes into the small kitchen and goes through her cutlery drawers. Waving knives and rolling pins about, she practises with each item, but the knives are no good; stabbing at them seems ineffective. She moves from room to room, looking for anything that could be used. Eventually, back in the kitchen, she finds a large, wooden broomstick that had been left by the previous tenants. She always thought it was odd to have a wooden broom in a tiny, carpeted apartment.
  Sarah takes the broom and holds it up; it isn’t heavy, but it is long. She rummages through more drawers and pulls out a roll of brown, parcel tape that she used to secure her moving-in boxes. She takes a long-bladed kitchen knife and tapes it securely to the end of the broomstick handle, she then moves into the lounge and practises lunging and stabbing with it.
  It isn’t perfect, but it will have to do and she knows that she has to leave now and try again, or the fear will become too much and she will never be able to leave.

  She walks to the door and extends her hand, grasping the handle and pausing to calm her breathing and her rapidly beating heart. She then yanks the door open and jumps out into the corridor, like an Amazonian warrior - holding the broomstick out in front, like a spear. She faces one way and jumps round to face the other side of the empty corridor. She gets to the stairwell and each step brings more fear, but courage grows after each step is taken.

  Sarah peers through the glass pane; silence all around, the only signs are the wet stains on the carpet, but even they are drying quickly from the hot air.
  Sarah breathes deeply and starts down the stairs, taking each step slowly, to make sure her footsteps are masked from noise by the soft carpet. She reaches the door to the 13
th
floor and again looks through the window into another empty corridor. She advances in slowly and, this time, she opens the fire hose cabinet and pulls the metal head free, making it ready for use.
  Waking down the corridor with the spear waving in front of her, the bristle end is just behind her back and she has to keep twisting it, so that the flat end doesn’t catch on her hips when she pushes the bladed end forward.

  She stops at the first door, listens quietly, and only when she is sure there is no noise, does she try the handle.
No knocking this time
, she tells herself -
move silently and do nothing to draw attention to yourself
. All the doors on the 13
th
floor are locked and secure - Sarah was surprised when she discovered the apartment block had a thirteenth floor, a lot of developers still go straight from twelve to fourteen - out of superstition.
  Sarah descends each floor in turn - each time she unlocks the fire hose and pulls the head free in preparation. At the 9
th
floor, she listens at the first door, nothing is heard and she tries the door handle. Moving on, she listens and tries the door handles for each door. At the last one, she pauses for a second -as she holds the handle down, resting her head against the door. The tension, fear and concentration are exhausting and she rolls her shoulders to ease the pain building across them.
  ‘Who’s there?’ A voice says softly from the other side of the door and Sarah opens her eyes wide, suddenly very fearful and not wanting to release the handle - in case it gives her away, then she realises the stupidity of this thought process.
  ‘Hello?’ The voice calls again; a soft male voice full of fear.

  Sarah releases the handle and steps to the side, not wanting the person on the other side to see her trough the peephole.
  ‘I saw you move, who is it?’ The voice asks, still soft and very scared.
  ‘I live on…’ she pauses, not wanting to give away her floor. ‘I live on the 18
th
floor, I was looking for other people and food,’ she says softly, still not wanting to draw too much attention to her location.
  ‘Are you alone?’ The voice asks.
  ‘Yes,’ she replies.
  Sarah hears the sounds of the locks being rotated, bolts and chains being removed and pulled back. The door slowly opens and a man comes into view.
  ‘Hello… Charlie,’ Sarah says to the battered and bruised face of the wine bar owner, and he smiles through swollen lips.

_______________________________________

Another bland and boring village, another horde, and again we stop the Saxon well back from them, the engine switched off to save precious fuel.

  The crowd are gathered at the front of some shops on the main road.
  ‘Don’t they get bored,’ I ask Dave.
  ‘I don’t think so,’ he replies.
  ‘It doesn’t look like they’re focussed on anything specific, does it? They’re all just aimless.’
  ‘Yes, Mr Howie.’
  ‘I reckon about thirty or so?’
  ‘Twenty eight.’
  ‘Oh, okay… so, what is it this time? Rocket launchers? Flame throwers? Or are we going for Samurai swords?’
  ‘Sniper rifle,’ Dave says and gets out of the Saxon to walk round the rear of the vehicle.
  ‘Of course it is, why wouldn’t it be? I didn’t even know we had a sniper rifle,’ I mutter to myself as I climb down.
  The recruits have piled out and are stretching in the sun and chatting quietly.

  Dave comes out of the back doors, holding a long bag, which he places on the ground and unzips the full-length zip. He removes a long, green-coloured rifle. The stock is folded and Dave pulls it out to the full-length and then fixes on a long tube to the end of the barrel. He checks the magazine and fixes it to the bottom of the rifle and finally walks over to the middle of the road and lies down, facing towards the horde.
  ‘This is a L115A3 long-range rifle. The scope is a standard day scope which increases the magnification by 25. There are five rounds in the magazine. The weapon has an adjustable bi-pod so the rifle can be settled, while you locate the target. This bit here is a cheek piece…’
  ‘What does that do?’ Tucker interrupts him to groans from the rest of the recruits.
  ‘You rest your cheek on it,’ Dave answers without expression. ‘The suppressor, at the front, reduces the range, but it also reduces the noise and flash, which thereby serves to keep the sniper concealed and increase his survivability.’ Dave pauses to extend the bi-pod and make minor adjustments, as he looks through the scope, towards the gathered horde.

  They have noticed our arrival and have turned to shuffle towards us, but the distance means it will take them quite a long time to get near us. I keep my assault rifle ready, just in case any of them decide to start sprinting.
  ‘The rifle fires an 8.59 millimetre round, this is heavier than some sniper rifles but it means the round is less likely to be deflected over long ranges. The range is six-hundred metres for a solid strike but it will fire over one kilometre and still be effective.’
  The recruits murmur at this, and I’m shocked too at the great distance this thing can cover.
  ‘So, we settle down and breath nice and slowly, so we are not jerky. Each movement is slow and controlled. You have to take into account wind speed, but in weather like this and over this distance, that is not an issue. Locate your target and keep your breathing controlled. When you are ready, you squeeze the trigger, do not snatch at it, as you will jerk the rifle and ruin your aiming. Squeeze and fire.’ The rifle makes a coughing noise and I watch a head explode in the middle of the horde, as the body drops down amongst them.
  ‘Okay, Mr Howie, would you like to try?’ Dave asks me.
  ‘I’ll try mate, but you know what I was like with that last rifle.’
  I go over and drop down to lie flat. I snuggle my shoulder into the end of the stock and rest my cheek on the cheek piece. I always thought that you put your eye right against the scope, but Dave shows me to look through it and locate the target. I choose a fat one, front centre. His head is wobbling less than the others, due to his fat neck.
  ‘Breath gently, identify the target and move slowly to make adjustments, if you need to,’ Dave instructs. ‘When you are ready, squeeze the trigger.’
  I keep the head in sight, it sways from left to right and I keep focussed on the middle of the sway, breathe slowly and squeeze the trigger.