The Undead. The First Seven Days (10 page)

‘Sorry about your car,’ he says,  ‘I thought it had been abandoned.’
  ‘That’s okay, mate. Did you hear the message on the radio?’
  ‘No, there was nothing. I only drove it here though.’
  ‘It might still be on. Have you got the keys?’
  He hands me a set of keys, and we go over to the car. I unlock the door and lean in, turning the radio on. The volume is down too low to hear anything. I twist the knob, and the car fills with sound:

“
There are survivors, you are not alone.

Do not come to London, we are completely infested.

I repeat, DO NOT COME TO LONDON.
If you are in the South then we advise you head to the Victorian Forts on the south coast.

Take whatever supplies you can carry: water, food, medicine and clothing.

Stay out of the cities and towns. Head to the Forts on the coast.”

I turn the volume up loud. There is an instant reaction as the men gather closer round the front of the car, and then more come out of the shop: women and children. People shouting for everyone to “shush” and be quiet.
  They all stand silently, listening to the message.

One of the men leans in to look at the front of the radio, at the FM frequency setting, and rushes back into the shop.
  As one, they start talking and moving about quickly: a sudden need for action, and the hope of a safe place to go.
  ‘Ah, now hang on - hang on a minute. We need to organise ourselves and gather supplies, plan our route and travel in a convoy,’ the spokesman is shouting, as they rush off.
  They disperse quickly, heading back into the shop, and I’m instantly forgotten. It’s just me, the
Micra
, and the keys in my hand. Well… it would be rude not to.
  I drop the axe into the passenger side. My bag is gone, but at least I have the car. I start the engine and reverse out onto the main road. Pulling away, I see the spokesman stop and look back. He holds his arm up as I drive towards Boroughfare.

The motorway is the fastest route; the daylight is starting to dwindle, and I need to move quickly.
  The radio message is annoying now, and I turn it down, but not off, just in case something changes.
  I was on this same motorway just a few hours ago, but going in the other direction. Within a short time I see the wreck from earlier, and the woman still lying by the mangled car. I keep my speed up and get past her quickly.
   A few minutes later, and I take the junction that heads into my town.

Force of habit kicks in, and I put the indicator on at the three hundred yard sign.

I come off the motorway and drive towards town, trying to think of my route. I need to get to my place but avoid the town centre. I hope that Dad would have thought this too and taken the longer road; with luck, I will follow in his wake.
  I skirt round the town and drive towards my flat through suburban streets. There are signs of devastation everywhere: abandoned cars with doors open; glass on the road; front doors hanging open and windows smashed - blood marks and stains everywhere.

No people though, and no bodies.
  I hear a scream and a woman comes running out of a house up ahead. She is clutching her neck and  bright red blood is pumping out from between her fingers. An undead child shuffles into view in the doorway. The woman runs out into the road and comes at me. She is screaming and looking back, while holding the wound in her neck. Not looking where she is going, she runs straight into my car, and her head slams against the windscreen; her blood splattering all over the glass. The windscreen fractures but remains intact. I brake hard, which sends her flying forward. I stop and get out to see her lying in front of the car, not moving.
  My natural reaction is to rush forward and help her, but I’ve learn that lesson already.
  The undead child has come down the garden path and is on the road: a heart-breaking image of teddy bear pyjamas soaked in blood. I get back into the car and steer around the woman and continue driving.
  Now, only the passenger-side windscreen wiper is working.

I use the water sprayer to clear some of the blood, but with only one wiper it just smudges the watery blood over to my side, obstructing my view. I have to lean over in order to see through the clear side.

I get to my road and pull up outside my house. The bodies I set on fire last night are still there, burnt and blackened, and the contents of my flat are still strewn across the front garden.
  The scene looks surreal; like someone has created a movie set and carefully placed the objects near to dead bodies.

My toaster stands out the most. Something about the image upsets me deeply. Memories of making tea and toast when I got home from working nights; tired and looking forward to sleep.
  The safety and comfort of my home is gone. I think of the news reports of far away places suffering from war or natural disaster; refugees giving accounts on losing everything and how they can never go back. I felt sad for them, but no real empathy. How could I? We live like kings with everything we could ever need or want. I try to push the thoughts away. This isn’t the time to dwell it now. I can grieve later when my family are safe.
  There’s no sign of my parents here and I don’t want to go inside and double check. I know they would have seen this devastation and feared the worse. Even if they went inside and checked, they would think that I had gone.
  I try to work out what they would do next.

Their note said that they would go back to their house, but they never arrived. Either they changed their minds - which is unlikely - or something stopped them. The road ahead leads into the town centre, the same route I took last night. If they didn’t go back, then they must have gone that way. I have to go and see.

Driving forward slowly, I realise that it’s almost dark and I speed up. I really don’t want to be out when its night. I get to the T-junction and the High Street is ahead of me. The right leads down to the roundabout and away from the centre, and the left leads into town and the main shopping area, bars and café’s. The right is clear of undead. The moped I crashed into the parked car is still there.
  I look left to where the massive horde was last night, but there is no sign of them. The armoured van is still in the middle of the road, and, again, I wonder what happened to the driver.
  I turn left and drive towards the van, stopping next to it. No sign of why it stopped, and I can only guess that it was just the size of the crowd that prevented him from moving on.  He should have turned the other way and lured them away from town.

I start to drive on, but I get a sudden idea. I stop the car and get out. Taking the axe with me I head over to the van. It’s a big, blue, square looking thing with some symbols on the side and big writing on the back saying “Police Follow This Van”. I can’t work out if that’s an instruction to the police or if they are telling potential robbers that the police are actually following them.
  The driver’s door is locked, and so is the passenger’s. There is no sign of damage to the front of the vehicle. The man climbed out of a roof hatch last night. The van is too high, and the sides too smooth to climb up.
  I get back in the
Micra
and park it tight alongside the van. I clamber out over the passenger seat and climb on the bonnet and up onto the roof of the car. I can see over the top of the van now. The hatch is still open. The lid is raised, with a grab handle on the inside. I push the axe onto the roof and then I climb up.
  Looking into the hatch I can see a black, swivel chair. To one side are shelves and compartments, all of them numbered. I drop the axe down and then lower myself down onto the chair. Inside I can see cloth money bags on the various shelves, and each bag has a serial number. We use these at the supermarket, and I am well accustomed to handling money and having large amounts of cash near me. Even so, there is a natural temptation to fill my pockets.
  At the front of the van is a door leading into the cockpit. The door is wedged open with a small, red fire extinguisher. There is a numbered code lock on this side of the door, but nothing on the driver’s side. I guess the rear passenger has to be able to get out, but there is no need for the driver to get in.
  How did the driver get through to the back then? I saw the van being driven, then the man getting out onto the roof. There must have been two of them, or he’d already wedged it open.
  The keys are still in the ignition. The controls are the same for any normal vehicle. I get into the drivers seat and turn the ignition. The van turns over but doesn’t start. There is a symbol of a fuel pump flashing in orange, and the gauge is reading empty. That explains it. He ran out of fuel!
  Simple really.

The last of the daylight is almost gone as I climb back out of the van and drop down onto the roof of the
Micra
, but, as I step down onto the bonnet, some movement ahead catches my eye.
There is a single undead coming towards me, wearing black trousers and a black shirt. He has a very large build and looks like a bouncer from one of the clubs: shaved head and no neck. I watch as he shuffles along slowly, his arms hanging limply. As he gets closer, I see that the top of his bald head has been savaged, there are also blood stains down his face, and flesh sticks out from his scalp.
  This man is huge - at least six feet, four inches. The muscles in his forearms bulge out, and the sleeves of his shirt are tight against his upper arms. I wouldn’t want to meet him on a normal day, never mind now. He is still a couple of hundred metres away.

I turn to move back to the car. The daylight has gone completely and the night has set in. I look about and see the streetlights are on - some of the shops still have illuminated windows.
  I look at the
man mountain
undead again. He has stopped; motionless. His head is slightly raised and not lolling about, like it was just a few seconds ago.
  He lifts his head higher and lets out a huge, guttural roar. Then I hear others from further up the road. Somewhere nearby another joins in. They are all emitting a deep, terrifying roar; like wolves signalling each other.
  My heart is pounding. This is the single most frightening thing I have ever heard. The sound goes on for a while. There must be hundreds joining in now, and the call reverberates down the street, echoing off the buildings.

Then suddenly they stop.

The sound doesn’t diminish or die off. It just ends, but the silence that follows is truly deafening.
   The undead drops his head and stares straight at me, then he starts shuffling slowly. Suddenly, he is moving faster. His head is fixed and staring at me, and his movements are jerky but far more controlled than they were a few minutes ago.
  This is like last night, when they were wild and frenzied. He is running now, lurching towards me; his arms flailing about at his sides.
  I turn towards the car and launch myself into the passenger side head first, then I instantly regret it. The car is too small to twist around in properly; he will be at my back within seconds. The axe is still in my hand, but the space is too confined to bring it up.
  I twist onto my back and try to reach the open door. He is through the open gap instantly, and his head drives forward. I pull my knees up and can see his wound in close detail. The flesh is bitten away down to the bone, and chunks of skin are creased up; the blood is congealed and dry down his face. His mouth is bloody and his lips are pulled back, showing two ugly rows of blood stained teeth. His red bloodshot eyes add to his look – they are ferocious.
  I kick out, frantically trying to keep him away, but it is like kicking a tree. My feet keep going, cycling back and forth, and the soles of my trainers strike him repeatedly in the face. His nose smashes, and his head is constantly jerked back, but he keeps coming at me, gnashing his teeth.
  I use both feet at the same time, kicking out with all my strength and he gets knocked back a little. The force shudders him away from the car, but he stumbles and goes down onto his arse. I can’t risk leaning forward to close the door. I look round in desperation. The keys are still in the ignition, and as I turn them, the
Micra
’s little engine comes to life. I lean down and press the accelerator, but it’s not in gear.
  I lean over and try to force the car into gear, but it won’t go in without the clutch being pressed. The undead is coming forward again now, and I press my right hand down on the clutch and use my left to push the stick into first gear.

The undead is back, and my feet are kicking out again.

My kicks are panicked and not aimed. I can feel they are connecting, but I’m trying to look at the pedals. If I lift the clutch without power, the car will stall.

Fuck it! Fuck it!

My feet are cycling again. He is pushing in further towards me. Thank God, he hasn’t thought to use his hands. He could snap me instantly.
  My feet keep kicking his head; an equal force just about holding him at bay. My thighs are burning and my stomach cramps from holding my legs up. I’m leaning over to the right and push my left hand down on the clutch. My right hand is free now, and I push the gas pedal hard. The engine revs and I can feel the car vibrating. He is almost in the car now and his body weight has trapped my left leg against the side of the vehicle - my right foot is pounding into him. There is a sudden pain in my side from being bent over at such an angle.
  I lift my left hand up, and the engine bites, but there is no motion.