Blood on the Floor: An Undead Adventure (13 page)

‘YOU STINK,’ she shouts in a sudden tiny temper tantrum. ‘You really really stink,’ she growls and mutters. She tells Paco how bad he smells. She tells him she hates him and goes back to telling him how shit his films are. Or were. Whatever. Don’t be pedantic. Pedantic people are tossers too. She lists the actors she likes which is every actor she can think of apart from Paco. All other actors are good. Paco is shit. All other actors apart from ones with names that can be spelled two ways. Or pedantic actors. She hates all actors. All actors are wankers. They can go fist themselves with that cactus she threw at Paco. Heather has never actually told anyone to go fist themselves before but such is the anger fuelled anguish of the moment that she decides she really quite likes telling people to go fist themselves. The actual thought of it is gross. Like totally disgusting and she used to look away in disgust whenever she heard someone use that phrase. But right now? In this place? It fits. The insult fits perfectly. It’s like the C bomb. She’d never use the C bomb and could never envisage a situation that would warrant the use of said insult. However, there is an exception to every rule.

‘Cunt,’ she seethes then blinks at what is the first time she has ever actually uttered that word. She promptly decides she doesn’t in fact like it and goes back to the use of verbalised wishing that everyone can go fist themselves instead. Time moves on. Her energy levels deplete and it becomes sheer gruelling hard work. How the buggering hell is he still walking she doesn’t know but he is. That’s all that matters. Keep him going so he can eat the other zombies. Not eat. Beat up. No, kill. He kills the others zombies who try and beat him up and eat him. Oh that’s a good point. They were going for him and not her in the street. That’s interesting. Maybe they’re like a special club or something and don’t like it when people leave. Actually, it’s not interesting. It’s annoying. Everything is annoying.

She misses the junction. It’s only a narrow opening to an unmade road but she misses it anyway and ploughs on with her head down while giving prayers to the gods of gyms that she at least did exercise before all this happened. In that moment she catches sight of something at the edge of the unmade road but ignores it. She is consumed in the task at hand just to push this heavy stinking pissed bear down the lane. A claxon goes off in her head. She ignores it. Lights and sirens flash and warble. They too are ignored. Her brain tries frantically to get the message through until finally, she blinks and looks up.

‘What was that?’ She asks suspiciously and glances back over her shoulder to the opening of the unmade road dropping away and the drinking mug on its side. Why is there a mug in the road? She stops pushing and tries to stand upright with a big groan at the muscles in her back stretching out. Paco carries on. Momentum has been gained and the slight downhill gradient of this lane aids his movement.

‘Whoa,’ she lunges after him, grabbing his arm to pull him to a gentle stop then turns to look back at the mug and the narrow junction. A mug in the road. An actual drinking cup and right next to a junction too. Power cables! She spots them in the canopy of trees overhead. Distinctly thick black wires going over the road in the direction of the unmade road. Must be a farm up there. She walks back towards the junction, stretching her back with an audible wince. The mug is a normal plain ceramic thing like from any kitchen. She stares down then round at the thick hedges then up the unmade road. Nothing to be heard or seen. What’s that smell? She sniffs the air, crumpling her nose as she gains recognition. It smells like shit. Like human shit. She looks round and follows her nose to a dried mess of poo writhing with maggots left on the verge. People are weird but then if you’ve got to go then you’ve got to go.

Unmade road it is. She gets to Paco, turns him round then starts the push back up the gentle gradient that now feels like it’s a mountain trail. She gets him into the junction then starts the harder work of pushing him along a road made of divots, holes, stones, rocks and a hundred other things that snag his feet. What was gruelling hard work before turns into a torturous act of self-harm. Everything hurts. Her back, her stomach, shoulders, legs, boobs and her head pounds from thirst. Her mouth becomes dry and her throat is so parched it hurts to swallow. The gradient of the unmade road becomes steeper. The heat hotter. The hedges higher. There’s no air to breathe. She tells herself to ditch him and go on alone but then tells herself there might be infected so she needs him. If there are infected she’ll push him over and leg it. Survival is brutal but she will survive at any cost.

On they go. One foot after the other with Paco rapidly slowing to become increasingly sluggish. She takes more of his heavy weight on her arms that spreads more pain into her back. Several times he trips and she has to move fast to stop him going over while all the time avoiding any other part of her body touching him. That doesn’t last either and as he goes to topple she has no choice but to dart forward and get her shoulder into his arm to push him upright before rushing back behind him to keep him going on.

She starts to flag. She can’t go on. The pain and thirst is too much. Her head hurts more than anything else now. She goes to sink down to rest then stubbornly rises, twists and gets her back against his and pushes through her legs to keep going. The close contact means nothing now. The clothes she has on will have to be ditched and her new bag will be ruined. It doesn’t matter. Surviving is what matters and you do what it takes. The infected want Paco not her so by having him close it means she stands a greater prospect of living. Use him as bait, as a distraction, use him as a guard dog to kill other infected. Whatever. Just keep going. He stops walking. She strains and pushes through her legs, refusing to give in but he doesn’t move. She braces and heaves, grunting into the air with exertion. Veins in her neck bulge, her face flushes red but still he won’t go on. He’s reached the point of no return but she won’t give in. Not now and not for anyone. She strains and slides her feet over the loose screed underfoot to try and force him on. A metallic sound penetrates her brain that she puts down to things in her head popping from the exertion. It comes again. Dull and solid. She grunts and shouts into the air but still the heavy bastard won’t go on. He groans in his throat. A gargled weird sound accompanied by that dull thud again.

‘WHAT THE…?’ She pulls away to turn and scream at the idiot for refusing to go on and spots the five bar metal gate wedged against his chest and legs. The gate that’s closed. The gate that thuds dully from his weight pressing the metal hook against the clasp. The gate that leads to the cattle grid that leads down past fenced in fields to the farmhouse and outbuildings that look gloriously snug and homely. ‘I didn’t see it,’ she says quickly, seething, angry, tired and somewhat embarrassed. Paco groans. ‘Stop it, I said I didn’t see it,’ she snaps and pulls him back to get access to the lock then faces the next problem in this series of never ending problems.

A cattle grid. Smooth thick poles laid side by side with big gaps in between. Not a major issue for someone with motor skills but a big bloody problem to a stumbling half blind zombie.

The goal is right there. A farm means water. She needs water. Not far now. She braces, pushes and goes for it while hoping for the best. The result is a staggered half run with Paco slipping and sliding across the poles while Heather catches, props and heaves to keep him going until they stumble clear on the other side. Downhill now and she pushes him on, letting gravity aid his motion. Water. There will be water. A hose. A tap. A bucket. A cattle trough. Anything. A dirty puddle will do it. Just water.

Paco drops like a stone, simply unable to maintain any further motion. She doesn’t miss a beat but goes round him. Intent only on finding water from the urgent signals being sent into her mind. Drink or die. Find water or die.

She staggers to the farmhouse knowing she can’t go inside until she knows it’s safe. Farms need water outside. There will be a tap and a hose. Find it. She searches frantic and wild, not looking properly but turning round and casting about while running on round the farmhouse. Nothing here. There must be. She’ll have to go inside. She trips and curses as her foot snags the thick tube of the bright red hose on the ground. She drops to her knees as though expecting it to give her water right now. Find the end. She rises on weak legs to run staggered and stumbling as she stares down at the length of pipe. It goes on forever. Just forever then ends abruptly at a cattle trough on the other side of wire fence in a paddock. She pulls it clear and stares at the end that doesn’t have water coming from it. Find the other end. She drops the hose and starts back to track the never ending hose that goes on forever. Go back and get the end where the water comes from. She stops, turns and runs back to grab it then starts off again. The hose is the longest in the world. It must be. It snakes across the ground round the farmhouse and across a concrete area through some grass to an outbuilding and finally a tap. An actual tap that she twists and twists. She feels the hose grow rigid as the water gushes through it but that water has to navigate the hundred bloody miles of twisting pipe. Those final few seconds are the hardest. The knowledge that water is coming now makes the desperate signals in her mind come harder and faster.

When it does come she forces herself to wait to let it run for a few seconds and stares at the crystal clear liquid spraying from the end that quickly steams on the hot concrete yard. Let it run. It could have been stagnant for days. Rats might have pissed in it. Fuck it, she turns the hose on herself and revels in the glory of being saturated by cool liquid. Shivers run down her body and she drinks. She drinks water from a farm hose. She drinks and drinks and lets the glorious water cascade down to soothe her throat. It soaks her clothes, her top clings to her body. Her arms glisten and the material wrapped round her hands grows sodden. She drops the hose in panic to stare at the filthy rags on her hands. Did the water she drunk touch them? What if it did? No, she was holding the hose further down. It’s the spray making them wet. She takes greater care this time and holds the hose further down while aiming off to the side so she can lean in and drink from the flow.

The effect is amazing. An instant negation of an urge that was driving her mad. Her belly swells and the headache recedes to a dull thud. She lifts the flow and leans lower to let the spray go down the back of her neck and over her head. Chills run through her body. Water pours from her hair down her face and down her front and back. She stays there for minutes to cool down, to cleanse, to refresh and just for the simple pleasure of it.

On her knees in a farm yard she stays quiet and thankful and for once her mind is free of whirling thoughts and random topics. She gets drenched. Wonderfully drenched. She drinks more then goes back to letting it flow over her head. Drink. Rinse. Drink. Rinse. There is nothing else in the world save this moment.

There is something else. Paco. Her head lifts to stare back towards the access lane and the inert unmoving figure lying slumped on the ground. She gets up and starts walking with the hose in hand, spraying water as she goes. Across the yard, through the grass and over the concrete hardstanding to the other side of the farmhouse and up the lane she staggered down. She belches and sighs, her legs feel so heavy and drained. Exhaustion is right there. Fatigue and just plain old tiredness sapping her strength.

She locks her eyes on his mangled and filthy body trying to see if he’s still breathing but he’s sprawled face down.

‘Paco,’ her voice comes out hoarse and low. He doesn’t respond. ‘Paco,’ she says again. Firmer this time. Still he doesn’t respond. She drops the hose and goes forward to drop at his side. She gets her wrapped hands under his side and tries to heave him over but without him aiding it’s nigh on impossible. She lifts him an inch at a time and feels some small motion from him that tells her he still clings to whatever he calls life. She drops on her arse and turns to once again use her legs to drive him over onto his back. The exertion is crippling. It wasn’t so bad when she had to keep moving but that short rest has sapped any strength she had left. He rolls over, flopping onto his back to face up into a sky threatening to darken to become night.

Her legs refuse to help her stand up so she crawls to the hose and drinks again. She drinks deep and rinses her head before sinking down with her legs splayed out in front and the bag still on her back. She aims for his chest first, letting the water hit his torso before guiding it up his neck and into his face. She shuffles closer to aim better so as not to drown him and gets one wrapped hand over the end to make the flow become a spray that rains down.

He shows no reaction but remains quiet and unmoving. She stares and rains the water down. Devoid of thought or feeling but letting the water soak into his parched skin. A spurt from the spray is directed with micro-adjustments of aim to get on his lips and she holds still, knowing the water will be trickling in. His lips are awful. So cracked and dry. Everywhere on him is cracked and dry.

For a long time nothing happens, or at least it seems nothing happens. She can’t tell if he is swallowing due to the injuries to his neck. After a while his mouth twitches and opens wider. She aims better to get more into him then hears the water being taken down and swallowed.

She drank long but Paco drinks longer. He drinks and doesn’t stop. Like a machine that absorbs the liquid into his stomach with a rhythmic swallowing. She doesn’t know anything about the infected. Whether they need water or food or how they keep going despite the terrible injuries that can have. What she does know is that Paco is drinking so she lets him drink. She holds the hose steady as the sky darkens through hues of blue that herald the coming twilight. Still he drinks and the skin on his face begins to run clear from the filth being sluiced off.