The Undead. The First Seven Days (110 page)

Clarence powers into them, his massive arms punching out left and right, his elbows flying back to smash the noses and cheekbones of undead zombies that are trying to bite him. He picks a zombie up bodily and throws it hard at two more coming at him.
  I snap forward and swing my axe out hard, biting into the neck of one running at me. His momentum drives me backwards and I fall to the floor as he staggers past me, my axe stuck in his neck. I jump up and clamber towards him, desperate to retrieve my weapon. Strong hands grip me and I get flung like a rag doll through the air, landing several metres away. The zombie that threw me comes on, his teeth bared and growling like a dog. I scamper backwards and get to my feet.
  ‘Fuck it,’ I growl back at him and charge.

We collide, but I scrabble round and jump onto his massive back, wrapping my arms round his thick neck and squeezing with every ounce of my strength. He staggers about, his arms flailing but his sheer size prevents him from being able to reach around and pull me off. He slumps down onto his knees and throws himself backwards, trying to squash me under his enormous weight. I squeeze and squeeze with everything I’ve got, as I feel my breath being crushed out of me. My hand is across his face and I move it up slightly to avoid his gnashing teeth, I feel the soft pressure of an eye socket and drive my thumb in hard.

He squirms and howls, as I drive my thumb in, pushing against the resistance of the pressured eyeball. It pops and I feel warm sticky goo spurting out over my hand. I increase the pressure with my arms and hold on for dear life until eventually he goes limp.
  I push him off and wriggle out, running back to grab my axe. I wrench it free from the neck it’s stuck in and run back to the fat nonce that tried to squash me. I lift the axe high over my head and drive it down into his skull, bursting it apart and the dirty grey matter explodes out over the blood soaked ground.
  I spin round and swing the axe into the next one coming at me, stepping to the side so I don’t get mown down again. I cut deep into his shoulder and he goes down onto the ground. I pull the axe back and chop down at his still moving body, taking his head off.

Another one coming from my right… I grab a fistful of hair and lift the decapitated head and throw it hard. It hits the oncoming zombie square in the face, and I almost chuckle at the thought of the head-butt. It stalls him for just a second, but it’s enough for me to step round and slice the axe into his leg, cutting through to the bone. He goes down and again I chop down viciously, taking his head off.
  I hear a scream and spin round to see Jamie launching himself at several undead still standing with Darren.

His knives do deadly work and drop several, but his skill isn’t the same as Dave’s and suddenly he’s gripped by an undead on either side. Jamie thrashes and kicks out but ,like Dave, he is small and his blows go unnoticed.

Darren runs over and drives a knife deep into Jamie’s stomach.

Jamie screams and thrashes.

Darren goes round behind him.

I roar out and start running, but Darren smiles at me as he pulls Jamie’s head back and sinks his teeth deep into Jamie’s neck.
  All of us see it: me, Dave, Blowers, Cookey, Nick, Chris and Clarence and we scream out and charge forward.

Darren laughs and steps away. The remainder of his bodyguard charge at us, as Darren turns to sprint.
  The bodyguards throw themselves at us with ferocious attacks and it takes several minutes to finish them off. By which time, there is no sign of Darren. I look over and see Dave running to the limp form of Jamie. Gasping for breath I rush over and slump down, Dave rolls Jamie onto his back and I see the ragged wound in his neck, blood pumping out. Jamie is still alive, albeit barely. The rest join us, shouting to each other and asking where Darren went.
  One by one, they drop down and we form a kneeling circle round Jamie; each of us reach forward and place a hand on his body. Jamie grips Dave’s hand as Dave stares down with an intense look. I reach up and push Jamie’s hair away from his eyes. He looks at me and smiles. The young, quiet lad who followed Dave with heroic worship.
  ‘Did you get him?’ Jamie whispers at me.
  ‘We will Jamie, I swear it, we will,’ I whisper back.

Jamie looks at his hero, and I see tears falling down Dave’s cheeks.
  ‘Don’t cry, Dave,’ Jamie whispers, his breathing becoming shallower.

Dave leans down and places a hand on Jamie’s forehead.
  ‘You did good Jamie, very good. I’m proud of you,’ Dave says in a voice so soft.

Jamie smiles once at Dave, his face lighting up with the praise from the man he worshipped. Then he’s gone, the life drains from his eyes, and his face falls slack.
  Hot tears fall down my cheeks as I watch Dave gently reach out and close Jamie’s eyes. I reach my hand out to Dave’s shoulder, knowing what must be done. Dave looks at me and nods.

Chris’s hand covers mine and I hear him speak softly: ‘He was one of yours, I’ll do it.’

Dave and I lock eyes for a second, we both bow our heads.
  ‘Bye, Jamie mate, see you on the other side,’ I whisper, and move away.

Blowers and Cookey drop down and I hear them whisper their goodbyes.

Nick goes next, until Dave is left holding Jamie’s hand. Then gently, so gently, Dave reaches down and softly kisses Jamie on the forehead.

A sob breaks out from Cookey and I see him drop down onto his knees. Blowers reaches a hand down to Cookey’s shoulder and I move over to them. Nick stares back, for a second, before Dave joins us. We turn away as Chris does what needs to be done.

Without Darren, the dead army slow and become the normal daytime shuffling zombies. What’s left of the men from the Fort make light work and, before long, the ground is filled with thousands and thousands of zombie bodies.

I look down towards the Fort and realise we have lost many during the battle. Of the several thousand that charged out of the gates, maybe a thousand remain. The losses are huge, but we knew what we faced and we did so as free men.
  Standing here now, in the midst of the carnage, I think back to the losses that we, as a group, have suffered: McKinney, Tucker, Curtis and Jamie. Each of them so unique and so brave. Young men who survived something so truly terrible yet they laughed and joked and made that decision to fight back.
  I look over at Chris, Clarence standing by his side, just the way Dave is always at my side, and he too must be thinking of the people he has lost and I know losing Malcolm will be hitting him hard.
  For all our losses though, we have gained something special. Those brave men that laid their lives down did so knowing they were giving humanity another chance. For that, I am thankful. Darren has escaped, but I already know from the looks in the eyes of my men that we won’t stop until we find him.
  Now though, there is much to do. Bodies need to be burnt, injuries need to be tended. We need to find the children and their mothers and bring them back to the safety of the Fort.

Most of all though, we can do something we have needed to do since this war began.

We can grieve.

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Huntington House

A Mike Humber Detective Novel

By

R.R. Haywood

Chapter One

I was a policeman for sixteen years, so the sight of the spooky old house didn’t bother me.  I was sacked for beating up some creep for sexually violating children.  I caught him and beat the shit out of him.   Turns out he knew what he was doing though, he goaded me by making comments about what he’d done to those kids and I saw red.  Unfortunately we were on CCTV, which I didn’t know but he did.  Full colour high resolution real time image but with no audio, so what it didn’t show was those comments he made.  I was lauded as a hero by the press and my colleagues stood by me, and to be fair so did the job.  But we all know the rules and I had to take it on the chin.  I was lucky to avoid prosecution and a prison sentence.  There was even a whip round, which not only went round my station and division, but the whole force and the neighbouring forces too.  I made a bundle out of it and was going on TV shows and the radio talking about what I did and how the law should change.  But as with everything the news rolled on to something else and I was finally left alone.  Those sixteen years in the force had already destroyed my marriage so I truly was alone.  The money frittered away, holidays and trips, paying rent and living to the same standard I had when I was earning and it soon went. 

So there I was, two years later.  A nobody with no chance of a career or decent employment.  Security work was always offered and I did a few gigs but after everything I’d been through it was too dull, too repetitive and I could never settle.  Girlfriends came and went and I guess I distanced myself from everyone I had known before.  For a while I still went out with my old shift mates which gave me a sense of normality but I could see my stories were getting old, while they had current and fresh incidents to talk about.  Towards the end I could tell I was getting in the way and the final touch was when I walked past the local pub and saw them all having a pint.  Stood outside watching them laugh and joke pretty much broke my heart and I knew then I would never fit in again.

It was time to move on, so I did.  Then two years later I was sat in a café flicking through one of the security periodicals, looking for work and I saw the advert;  A winter position doing maintenance and security at some stately home, live-in and not a bad salary too.  I figured they would be inundated with applicants but having nothing else to do and needing somewhere to bed down for the cold winter months I duly downloaded an application form and emailed it off.   A week later I got a reply, asking me to attend for an interview two days later at Huntington House, the address was supplied and I had to Google it to find it was a few hours north of London.  The email asked that if I was successful would I be ready to start immediately.  I replied yes, I could start that day if they needed me.

Like I said, turning up for the interview and seeing the old house didn’t bother me.  The house was set in acres of private grounds with woods, copses and fields rolling out in all directions.  The driveway must have been a mile long, winding through the fields until it swept up the house.  I say house, but this wasn’t a house by any normal stretch of the imagination.  It was a mansion, a behemoth of a stately home.  Grey walls, ivy growing up the front, tall dark windows on all three floors, it even had those crenelated castle type turret things on the roof. 

I had walked up the driveway, having caught the early train from London and going north.  Leaving the cities and towns far behind as I went deeper into the countryside, eventually arriving at the single rail line in Huntington village station and then hoofing it through miles of lanes winding through fields and pastures until I finally found the entrance.  Mid October and the weather was cold and clear with that lovely crisp feeling in the air.  I was flat broke and couldn’t afford a taxi.  I barely had enough money to get home again.  The rucksack on my back contained about all I owned or needed. 

The brand new Range Rover parked up outside the house with the fat man stood next to it told me a few things.  First, that he was minted as a car like that costs tens of thousands.  Next, that they were desperate otherwise why would you wait outside and stare impatiently at the man coming for the job interview who was half an hour early.  It also told me the man was an arrogant prick by the fact that he didn’t come and pick me up from the end of the mile long driveway but rather stood there in his tweed suit letting me walk to him.

‘You must be Michael Humber?’ The man says, his face red and ruddy with wiry ginger hair sticking up.  He extends a pudgy hand towards me and I clocked the stomach straining against the flannel shirt and tweed jacket, ‘Lord Charles Huntington, very nice to meet you.’ Nice of you to tell me you’re a Lord.  Very subtle.

‘Yes, it’s just Mike, nice to meet you sir.’ I shake his hand which is sweaty with a weak grip.  They always say you can tell a man by the measure of his handshake.  Which is bollocks.  Anyone can fake a firm grip, or try and bely a weakness of character by giving a floppy shake.

‘Well you’re early so that’s a good sign.  Have you travelled far?’ The bloody idiot has just watched me walking a mile down his driveway.

‘From London, I got the train into Huntington village and walked in from there.  Lovely day and I knew I was early so…’ I don’t want to tell him I’m broke.

‘Walked all that way eh? You should have said we could have picked you up.’ Yeah right, after watching me stomp for the last ten minutes.

‘No it’s fine, it’s a lovely day and I love walking,’ I hate walking.

‘That’s wonderful! Right well we’ve already checked your background….’ so he knows about me beating that creep up then.

‘Yeah, so I guess you know about the thing with the man I beat up.’ Might as well get it out in the open now.

‘Yes we do, and let me just say this.  I think it was awful what they did to you, sacking you like that.  Bad show, terribly bad show.’ He shook his head, looking all serious.

‘Thank you, that means a lot to hear that,’ which must be the millionth time I have heard it.

‘Well, their loss and our gain I say,’ he smiled suddenly, looking all genuine and sincere.