The Undead Day Sixteen Read online

  ‘He needs to rest,’ Dave’s deadpan voice looms eerily all around me.

  ‘Stop doing that,’ I shout at the walls around me, ‘I can fucking hear you…Paco? Chris? Where are you? Where’s Sarah?’ My voice trails off into a whimper as all the voices suddenly cease, plunging me back into the silence of the ruined landscape that surrounds me and the shadows that threaten to spill out.

  Three

  ‘Howie,’ Lani leans over his prone form. Gently calling his name, she strokes the side of his face. He doesn't respond but whimpers quietly, his body flinching and tensing as though trapped in a nightmare.

  ‘Howie!’ She calls out louder with a tone desperate to wake him from whatever demons plague his rest. She needs to know he is okay, that he can be woken.

  ‘Mr Howie!’ She says louder still, using the mister to try and penetrate his unconscious form. She can feel how high his temperature is and the currents of tension pulsing through his body.

  ‘Mr Howie!’ She tries again, shaking him by the shoulders as fat tears fall from her eyes to land on his cheeks. They quickly get absorbed and dried by the heat from his skin.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Dave drops to her side, his tone dull yet firm.

  ‘He needs to wake up,’ Lani sobs.

  ‘He needs to rest,’ Dave replies, shuffling closer to shield Howie with his own body.

  ‘Lani, come away for a minute love,’ Paula gently touches Lani on the shoulder with the merest of pressure applied, ‘come on, let him rest.’

  ‘He needs to wake up,’ Lani whispers, ‘he won’t wake up.’

  ‘He will,’ Paula counters, ‘in his own time he will, let him rest…come on…’ she increases the pressure on her shoulder, guiding her away.

  ‘This is your fault,’ Lani glances up to the shadowy form of Dave, staring hard into his eyes. ‘This is your fault,’ she snaps in a low growling voice, ‘you should have stopped him…he only listens to you…’

  ‘Lani,’ Paula steps closer, ready to intervene as Lani leans across Howie to snarl at Dave.

  ‘No, Paula,’ Lani retorts without looking round, ‘you should have stopped him…’ she repeats, ‘why didn’t you see he was going crazy? Why, Dave? Why couldn’t you see it?’

  ‘Lani!’ Paula’s tone is more urgent ‘it’s done, come away.’

  ‘I will not,’ Lani shrugs Paula’s hand from her shoulder, ‘you did this…you fucking did this, Dave…Howie only listens to you…oh the great Dave who can kill everyone and always at Howie’s side, Dave who does everything Howie tells him…Dave who can’t think for himself…’

  ‘Lani! Enough!’ Paula snaps, ‘what’s done is done, Dave couldn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Why?’ Lani twists to shout at Paula, ‘why didn’t he? We all did…why is he so special?’

  ‘Lani stop it,’ Blowers steps closer to the huddled group.

  ‘I won’t stop it,’ Lani shouts, ‘Dave could have stopped him, Dave could have got Howie calm and…and…Howie wouldn’t be like this now if it wasn’t for Dave…we could have…’

  ‘Clarence,’ Blowers calls out, ‘we need to get Lani away for a minute.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ Lani glares up at the silhouetted forms standing nearby, ‘none of us could stop him, none of us are special enough…only Dave but he didn’t…did you, Dave?’

  ‘Lani,’ Clarence moves in to the inner circle, his deep voice soft yet firm.

  ‘Did you, Dave?’ Lani presses, ‘why? Why didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Clarence stops close to Lani’s shoulder, ‘move away now.’ The command is still gentle as the big man realises how frail Lani is right now.

  ‘Why is Dave so special?’ She snaps, ‘why does Howie only listen to Dave? Why him? Why didn’t you stop him, Dave? You saw he was going mad…you saw it…you pulled your gun on us…for the love of God you took a weapon against the rest of us, Dave!’

  ‘He’s autistic,’ Clarence bends over to press his hands either side of Lani’s shoulders, ‘and he has Asperger’s…’

  ‘No excuse…he knows enough…you know enough to have stopped him…’ she shouts at Dave, ‘if Howie is hurt then it’s your fault…your fault, Dave….YOUR FAULT.’

  ‘Dave cannot read people,’ Clarence lifts the girl easily from the ground, ‘he cannot read social situations or…’

  ‘GET OFF ME!’ Lani yells, ‘this isn’t about Dave, or what Dave can do, or what Dave can’t bloody do…’

  Cookey steps in to face Lani, his voice low and trembling with emotion, ‘that’s not fair,’ he says to Lani, ‘don’t say that to Dave.’

  ‘Grow up,’ Lani hisses.

  ‘No, it ain’t fair,’ Cookey presses, ‘Dave did stop Mr Howie.’

  ‘After he went mad!’ Lani shouts, ‘he bust through a bloody wall with the Saxon and attacked innocent people…’

  ‘Stop it,’ Cookey pleads in a half shout.

  ‘Dave is unstoppable…Howie could have killed people…he could have got himself killed…what if Howie turns? What then? Dave turns with him? Dave would give himself over to be with Howie…we all know it…not one of us can get through Dave…’

  ‘Lani, please’ Nick joins in, ‘this is shit enough…just stop it for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I won’t fucking stop it!’ Lani’s voice rises in pitch and volume, her body shaking with pure fury, ‘DAVE SHOULD HAVE STOPPED HIM…I HATE YOU, DAVE…YOU HEAR ME? I HATE YOU FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE…’ A slap rings out clear and distinct in the darkened factory floor of the munitions buildings. Instant silence follows the unmistakable noise of skin on skin, an open handed strike delivered clean across Lani’s face.

  ‘None of the others would do that,’ Paula hisses, ‘but I bloody will…now stop ranting and get a grip of yourself…’

  Lani reels from the contact with her cheek burning from the slap. Humiliated, tears of rage turn into tears of despair and her mind closes off to reason with a conflicting spread of numbness. She swallows audibly and blinks hard in the electric charged atmosphere. All eyes are on her, staring and waiting to see if she’ll erupt.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lani whispers as she finally reaches up to rub at the tender spot on her cheek, ‘I…I’m…’ she exhales long and slow, pushing the air out as she struggles to master her own thoughts. ‘Dave…’ she turns as Clarence eases his grip from her shoulders, ‘I…that was unforgivable…’

  ‘No,’ Paula speaks firmly, ‘you had a point but…’

  ‘What point?’ Cookey asks in shock.

  ‘Dave should have stopped him,’ Paula says carefully, ‘Lani is right, Howie listens to Dave and she was also right that no one else could get close because of Dave…but,’ she sounds out as she turns round slowly to address the whole group, ‘Dave is autistic and that’s something we have to deal with.’

  ‘How?’ Roy speaks up for the first time, ‘he can’t assess situations like we can.’

  ‘Dave?’ Paula asks the small man still kneeling protectively at Howie’s side, ‘we’re talking about you like you’re not here…do you understand what Lani is saying?’

  ‘Yes,’ the flat monotone voice is impossible to read.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Blowers speaks out, ‘you’re patronising him.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Paula retorts, ‘and forgive me but we’re in a bloody mess right now so we need to get this sorted.’

  ‘Yeah but don’t speak to Dave like that,’ Blowers replies.

  ‘Blowers, calm down,’ Clarence orders, happy to use some strength in his voice addressing a younger male. ‘Everyone take five and relax, Dave will stay with Mr Howie…we’re in a mess and we’re here to do a job which is to get ammunition. Blowers, organise a watch on that hole in the wall and get someone on the other side too.’

  ‘But…’ Blowers starts to reply.

  ‘No buts,’ Clarence keeps his voice steady but let’s no mistake as to the intent, ‘we sort our own shit out in private…which means not here…we present a unified and swit
ched on front to these people…’

  ‘Got it,’ Blowers nods with discipline, forcing his own voice to show respect.

  ‘Paula, I’ll need you to communicate with the people here, we need ammunition and seeing as we’ve breached their factory we’ll also offer them an escort back to the fort.’

  ‘Okay,’ Paula follows Blowers lead, nodding quickly as the big man steps in to take control.

  ‘Good,’ Clarence steps back and rubs his own neck to ease the tension in his tight muscles. ‘Good,’ he repeats but glances down in worry at the prone form of Howie and feels anything but good.

  Four

  Day Two

  He looks up at the sky. It’s a deep blue with hues of purple that darken steadily as the day gives way to the relentless and unceasing chase of dark after light.

  The ugly man has an affinity to this endless cycle. It strikes a chord that resonates with his own relentless nature. His unceasing drive to do what must be done. With an inward snort of dark humour he realises that he isn’t the only one with a relentless and unceasing nature. The small boy, holding his hand and skipping along while staring down at his new shoes, never stops talking. It’s just a torrent of questions, of questions that don’t have answers, answers that have no questions. Comments, remarks, observations and an appetite to know everything, coupled with a factual certainty that Gregori obviously has the answers to everything.

  The ugly man still cannot fully understand why he stays with the boy. The self-justification that by having a small child will make him less threatening to groups of survivors just isn’t true. Gregori doesn't need other survivors. Gregori doesn't need anybody. If he is hungry he will find food. If he is tired he will find a secure place to sleep. If he is threatened he will kill and kill until the threat is negated.

  The boy irritates him. The boy annoys him. He speaks too much and moves too slow but there is something, something Gregori cannot quite grasp or understand. The boy shows no fear of the undead. He seems to know where they will be or not be. How? How can he know such things?

  ‘Gregoreeee,’ the boy announces as the prelude to yet another question, snapping the ugly man from his silent reverie, ‘why didn’t you get new shoes?’

  ‘I have shoes,’ Gregori’s deep voice grunts in his thick, Albanian accent.

  ‘But you could get red shoes like my new red shoes and then you would have red shoes and I would have red shoes.’

  ‘I have shoes.’

  ‘Are we there yet?’ The boy asks for the hundredth time .

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will my new family be there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who will be there?’

  ‘No…I…nobody.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You ask this. I answer.’

  ‘Can I have Rice Krispies for breakfast?’

  ‘I not know this.’

  ‘Or Cocoa Pops.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Or Frosties…is it night time now?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Do you have pyjamas?’

  ‘I not know this word.’

  ‘Pyjamas?’ The boy giggles, ‘everyone has pyjamas…but girls have nighties…’

  ‘Nighties? What is nighties?’

  ‘Girls wear nighties when they go to bed…mummy has a nighty and…’

  ‘I understand. No I not have these. You not have these.’

  ‘Mummy said I have to wear my pyjamas.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But, Gregoreee…Mummy said I have to wear them.’

  ‘No. We don’t have these.’

  ‘I want my pyjamas.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fine,’ the boy stops dead in his tracks with a sullen look on his face.

  ‘What you do? We go now…come, we go,’ Gregori pulls the boy along who simply gets dragged a few feet but stubbornly refuses to walk.

  ‘I want my pyjamas.’

  ‘No have these…come now.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Boy, you come now.’

  ‘NO!’ The boy shouts with his bottom lip poking out and his eyebrows dropped to a look of petulant anger.

  ‘No shout,’ Gregori glances round the deserted street, at the broken houses and at the cars left abandoned in the middle of the road. Corpses lie still with flies buzzing amongst them. They’re hot and sticky and signs are everywhere that the undead have been here. Blood stains, smears and death surround them but the boy refuses to move.

  ‘Come now,’ Gregori tugs at the boys hand, urging him to walk.

  ‘NO!’ The boy shouts louder, ‘I WANT MY PYJAMAS.’

  ‘Boy, no shout,’ Gregori hisses in alarm.

  ‘PYJAMAS,’ the boy’s face flushes red with anger while he stamps his foot on the ground. Tugging his hand free from Gregori, he draws breath ready to shout but finds a big, gnarled hand clamping down to cut the shout off. He struggles and thrashes his head side to side while trying hard to pull away.

  ‘Shush, you quiet,’ Gregori fights with the boy while glaring round, constantly scanning the streets, the houses, the windows and doors. Too many points of access here, too many entry ways to monitor.

  ‘GET OFF,’ the boy breaks free and screams the words out louder still, ‘GETOFFGETOFF.’

  Gregori tries picking the boy up but as small as he is, the child thrashes with unbelievable energy and violence. His golden face flushes a deeper red as his tantrum builds up higher. With a hard kick to the shin, Gregori swallows in pain and lowers the struggling boy to the ground. Small, tight fists get balled up into small hammers that bounce and strike off Gregori’s chest and arms. The Albanian holds his head back, ducking and weaving to avoid the blows while all the time staring round and glancing up at the ever darkening sky.

  ‘PYJAMAS,’ the boy screams with murder in his eyes. Gregori flounders and hesitates. What do you do with a screaming child? The noise is terrible and with the boys arms flailing so hard he can’t get close to clamp the mouth. He knows the boy has no fear of his pistol otherwise he would draw it and threaten to shoot him. A knife is no good, the boy is too young to have a full concept of having his throat cut or an ear sliced off and Gregori recognises pure temper when he sees it. The boy was like this last night when he rushed forward to defend his mother by stabbing the undead with a kitchen knife.

  A blow catches him to the side of the head, a solid little punch that Gregori absorbs with ease but feels the first prickle of reaction. The sky is darker now, the sun sinking down past the horizon. Shadows lengthen and become deeper. This is not the place to be. They need to move.

  Another fist whacks him on the chin as he peers over his shoulder to the many doorways and windows of the street surrounding them. He reacts with lightning speed, one hand shoots out to grip the boy’s face, Gregori’s hard fingers clamping onto his jaw. Harder pressure is applied until the soft skin of the boys jaw turns white. He lifts the arm, easing the boy off his feet. Still the boy pays no heed and lashes out with determination. Gregori’s gaze darkens, anger building, but the boy equals him and hammers to try and hit Gregori’s face. He can’t reach so he goes for the arm holding him, raining blows down on Gregori’s forearm until he realises he is having no effect so changes tactic and goes for digging his sharp little nails into Gregori’s skin instead.

  As focussed on the boy as Gregori is, his peripheral vision still takes in the sides and behind the boy. Dark now. Night is here. This has to end. A much firmer grip is taken, his left hand squeezing at the boy’s face while his right lifts up ready to deliver an open handed slap across the boy’s face. He sees it coming and stops attacking Gregori’s arm. The boy stares at the open hand with defiance then glares back at Gregori as though goading him to strike. No fear there, no fear whatsoever, just defiance and rage.

  ‘I not hit you,’ Gregori mutters, ‘you not hit me.’ He lowers the hand and pushes him with enough force to cause the boy to fall down on his backside. Gregori waits for the reaction, ready to push
the boy away if he charges in for another attack but the boy snaps his head to one side, staring over to the left, then over to the right before looking up at the sky.

  ‘They’re coming,’ the boy says back in his usual tone.

  On his feet, Gregori spins round ready to face whatever foe comes their way but there is nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard either.

  ‘Listen,’ the boy rises quickly to his feet while whispering across to Gregori, who cranes his head straining to hear anything. He glances across at the boy with a hard yet quizzical expression.

  ‘Now,’ the boy whispers then it hits. A wall of sound. Voices primeval and sinister that howl into the night sky. Unseen, yet close, and coming from every direction. Hundreds, thousands and more that scream with utter venomous energy it prickles the hairs on the back of Gregori’s neck. In all his years, after hundreds of murders and mass killings, of all the countries and all the cultures he has visited, never before has a sound such as this reached his ears. There is no doubt as to the source. This country doesn't have big wild animals. Dogs wouldn’t sound like that either. It’s human voices but collective and together. They howl like wolves but far worse. Scratchy smokers voices, children’s screeches. females higher in pitch and males lower in semi-baritone, yet all of them screeching with such volume is creates a never ending and multi-directional threat assessment.

  ‘Come,’ Gregori takes two quick steps and grabs the boy’s hand, roughly pulling him along as he starts charging down the street. The boy complies, running along in his new shoes while staring around with a strange look at the unseen howls permeating the night sky.

  The boy says something, too low and drowned out by the noise. Gregori keeps running but barks out, ‘what?’ at the boy. The sound ceases. Ends with a suddenness that is foreboding and almost deafening in its arrival.

  ‘I said they stop now,’ the boy repeats, ‘they’re coming now.’

  ‘Where?’ Gregori spins as he runs, his highly trained senses picking out possible points of access to the street. An open door there, a smashed out window, a side gate leading to a rear garden, alleys, walkways… there’s too many and this place is too enclosed.