The Undead. The First Seven Days (19 page)

Before long, we are out into the countryside; fields and meadows passing us on both sides, the empty road ahead stretching off into the distance.
  Every once in a while, we pass small dirt tracks that lead to buildings and farms set back from the road.

We avoid the towns and keep to the country roads, checking the map every so often to be sure of the route. There are small clusters of houses nestled into the countryside; an idyllic Home Counties type of setting, worthy of picture postcards.

We both munch our way through the perishable food, eating apples and bananas. I still feel spaced out and achy, but the steady driving and the normal activity of eating has helped to sooth my nerves.
  I was chucking the remains and waste out of the window to start with, but then I saw Dave collecting all of his waste in a separate bag. He kept glancing at me as I threw mine out the window, then he pointedly placed the waste bag in the middle of us, a simple action, with one meaning.
  ‘Sorry mate, I wasn’t thinking. I’m leaving a trail behind us, aren’t I? Others would be able to follow us and know where we have been. I guess you learnt that in the Army?’
  ‘No.’
  ‘Oh, so why the waste bag?’
  He looks at me, his face devoid of expression but somehow managing to imply that I’m a simple fool.
  ‘Keep Britain Tidy.’ He turns back to face the front again.
  ‘Dave, what you said to me before, about keeping a firm grip, strike and move. How do you know that stuff? And the way you use those knives, you must have studied martial arts or something?’
  ‘No.’
  ‘Where did you learn it then?’
  He pauses for a few seconds, assessing the question.
  ‘The army.’
  ‘Wow, why did they teach you all that? I thought it was more about guns and stuff.’
  Silence.
  ‘Dave… the Army has probably fallen. Christ the whole country has probably fallen. Everything has bloody fallen and those undead zombie things are everywhere - we even killed a shit load of them just a few hours ago. I’m sure that it will be okay if you tell me.’
  ‘I can’t, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Why not?’
  ‘I’m not allowed to say.’
  ‘What… you are not allowed to say why you can’t tell me? Or are you just not allowed to say anything?’
  ‘Yes.’
  Clear as mud.

We drive in silence, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about his past, but I get the impression that he would tell me if he thought he was allowed. Someone has given him clear instructions of what he can and can’t say and he’s sticking to them.
  There is a sudden cramping in my stomach, an urgent message being passed from bowel to brain. I have to go – NOW!
  There is an entrance to a lane just up ahead, other than that I will have to shit on the road, the verge on both sides is high and fenced off with big, thorny bushes. The van stops just ahead of the lane and I take a pack of wet wipes from my bag and get out of the cabin.
  ‘Mr Howie…’
  I can’t wait. I lean my head back quickly to see Dave holding an axe handle out to me, I grab the axe and smile before legging it down the side of the van and into the lane entrance.

I go down a short distance, check all around me… all clear. Squatting down at the side of the tarmac, my trousers and boxer shorts round my ankles; there is immediate relief as my bowels open. My stomach keeps cramping as more poo gets spurted out, splattering the verge and tarmac. The smell is disgusting; my stomach must be upset from the extreme lifestyle of the last couple of days, plus the sporadic eating. I guess the copious fruit we just ate hasn’t helped matters either.
  Despite the smell, and the thought of taking a crap in broad daylight in a country lane, the feeling of relief is amazing and I’m moaning with the pleasure, I almost sound like one of the undead. I keep groaning and then try to mimic the noises they make.
  Do they need to shit? I bet they just poo in their pants. Dirty undead.
  A noise behind me and I twist round, the lane goes downhill and the treetops almost meet above the middle of the road, making a tunnel. The lane is much darker. There is another entrance a few metres into the lane that was concealed by the bushes when I first looked.
  There is a noise coming from that direction, a movement. I grab at the wipes and start cleaning my arse, unfortunately this takes several wipes - I refuse to pull my trousers up with a dirty bum. I understand that we all have to make sacrifices and change our normal behaviour in this new world, but walking around with a shitty arse isn’t one of mine.
  The sound is closer now. Ah… stuff it. I can give my arse a good clean later. I pull my trousers up and tighten the belt. The axe handle is wedged between my knees. A dog emerges out of the entrance, black and white, one of those collie farm dogs. The dog has stopped and is staring at me, half hidden in the shadows. He is crouched low and looks like he is shivering. Poor thing, I wonder when he last had any food. I edge closer and speak in a nice, soft tone.
  ‘Hello boy, who’s a good boy, or girl? You’re a good doggy.’
  I love dogs, always have done. We always had dogs when I was younger, ones from rescue shelters - so we had a good mix of crosses and mongrels. I would love to get one now, but being single and working most nights is no good for a dog.
  As I move forward, the entrance comes more into view. The dog gives a soft growl and I stop. There is an undead further up behind the dog: a fat, middle-aged male, he has bushy, grey hair and dark trousers tucked into big, green, rubber boots. He wears a light-coloured, long sleeved shirt and looks like a stereotypical farmer. He just needs one of those long sticks with the crook at the end. I imagine his  wife making apple pies and Sunday roast dinners.
  Dave comes round the corner, obviously concerned that I have been gone for too long. I point at the entrance, guessing that he can’t see them from where he is. He comes down further and joins me, then starts forward, as soon as he sees the undead; knives ready and reversed in his hands.
  ‘I don’t think the dog will let you near him, mate.’
  He looks down at the collie; the dog pulls his lips back and shows a row of large, sharp teeth. The undead farmer is shuffling slowly towards us.
  ‘Lets try and get him out of that lane, his farm must be close.’
  Dave looks at me.
  ‘Shotguns!’
  He nods and walks a bit closer to the dog, who crouches lower and growls more. Dave stops and waits for the undead to make his way out of the entrance. The dog keeps glancing at his master, then moves position, edging closer to Dave who backs away, just a little at a time.
  I go to the far left of the entrance, the dog goes to follow me, but Dave stamps his foot and brings the dogs attention back to him. This has got to be the slowest moving undead yet…he is inching along at a snails pace.
  I drop the axe head onto the raised verge and lean on the handle. Despite the horrible circumstances, the lane is pleasant and quiet. Sunlight dapples through the canopy; causing shadows to dance across the surface of the road. It feels like it is getting hotter and there is no wind; the air is very close.
  The dog is panting; his big, pink tongue hangs out of the side of his mouth. I go back to the van and open the rear doors. I take one of the bottles of water and a mug, and, back in the lane, I fill the mug with water, placing it a few feet in front of the dog. We keep backing away, leading the farmer from the entrance and trying to get the dog close to the mug.
  Eventually, after what seems like hours, the farmer has come out of the lane far enough for us to get round. We both pull back further to create more space between us. The dog takes advantage of us moving away and laps at the water in the mug, his eyes never leaving our position. We both watch until the dog has its nose pressed into the mug, trying to get at the bottom. Then the mug is knocked over and a tiny trickle spills out onto the road, soaking into the hot surface. We move round and then behind the farmer and we are safely into the smaller lane. The earthen ground is rutted with wheel marks; compacted and dry in the hot weather.
  Within minutes, I am wiping sweat out from my eyes. We are steadily moving uphill, high hedges on both sides prevent any view of the surroundings.
  The lane ends at a metal five-bar gate, which is wedged open. A rusty cattle grid lies just beyond the gate; dark metal poles evenly spaced, weeds growing up between them.
  The gate leads onto a long driveway going downhill a few hundred metres to some buildings; some of them are sheds and barns; long and low with corrugated roofs.
  There is plant machinery dotted about, things that farmer’s attach to tractors - I guess. One of the buildings looks like a normal house.
  Our raised position means that we can see the fields beyond the buildings. We both wait and stare at the view.
  Finally, Dave looks at me and nods and we go through the gate and onto the driveway. There is a herd of black and white cows standing at the gate in a field adjacent to the buildings. As we get closer, I can see that the udders look full. I had heard that cows will get so used to the routine of milking they will wait at the gate. I also heard that cows explode if they don’t get milked - so I watch them as we pass, ready to duck, in case of bovine explosion.
  The cows haven’t been bitten and the dog was okay too. The farmer would have access to all types of animals, but they look unharmed.
  I had thought of using rotting flesh, or an animal carcass to lure them away in London, but it appears that the undead only crave human flesh. If we are going to use meat as a trap, then it has to be human meat - and alive too.
  I force the thought away, disgusted that I’m even thinking of it.

We are in the central area of all the buildings now; the farmhouse is surrounded by a low stone wall that matches the impressive building.
  There is a front door in the middle of the building. We circle the house, looking for other entry points or any signs of movement. The windows all have heavy net curtains inside, in order to prevent the farmhands looking in the house, I guess.

The front door is dark wood and inward opening. I slowly push the handle down and the door opens a fraction. I then look at Dave, nod and then slowly start to step forward. The axe bangs noisily on the lower half of the door, which remains closed. I look at Dave, with an apologetic grimace.
  ‘Sorry… it’s a stable door.’ I reach in and unlock the bottom half of the door and we proceed.
  The floor is made from flagstones and there is a flight of exposed wooden stairs ahead of us.
  Dave taps me on the shoulder and motions for me to stay still; he moves off to the right into a doorway and is gone from view for a few seconds. He returns and gives me a
thumbs up
signal, then motions with his hand towards the door on the left. He goes first, easing each foot down, treading carefully.
  He gets to the door, pushes it open and leans his head in. Without looking at me, he takes both knives in his left hand and raises his right to the side of his head.
  He makes a fist and then extends two fingers, giving me the V. He makes a fist again and then extends one finger, pointing it to the room, then a fist and again he extends a finger and points into the room - more off to the side this time. Then he makes a flat hand and runs it across his throat, next he extends all his fingers out straight and reverses his hand so that the palm is facing towards the door, then more palms and fingers are waved about.
  I have no idea what this all means.

I think he is telling me that there is someone in there… the rest leaves me clueless.
  He looks back at me and I shrug my shoulders, and, again, even though his face wears the usual
devoid of expression
look, I could swear he is wondering why he got stuck with me. He then points two fingers directly at his own eyes and motions for me to look. He eases back and I peek inside; there are two undead in the room.
  Ah… so that’s what he meant, two of them. Then the hand across the throat must have implied they are dead - no
undead
. Oh, I get it, anyway. I don’t know what the rest of the waving and pointing was about and make a mental note to ask him later… mind you, he will probably say nothing, again.
  One of undead is a fat woman, a
really
fat woman. She must be the farmer’s wife; all jolly and large, wearing a white apron over a flowery dress. The other undead is an adult male, wearing dirty and stained overalls tucked into rubber boots.
  They are standing side by side with their backs to the door, facing out of the window. The farmer’s wife has a huge chunk torn out of her meaty upper arm; dried blood is splattered all down her dress.
  There are blood stains on the male, but I can’t see any injury from here. They’re in the kitchen area, with a large dining table at one end, and are positioned in front of the sink. There is another closed door opposite me; there must be more rooms beyond it as the house extends further than the size of this room.
  I ease back and gently pull the door closed. Dave motions with his head for me to follow him and he starts climbing the stairs. I climb up behind him, looking back at the kitchen door to make sure that I closed it. Dave has stopped and I walk into the back of him, my head nudging his backside.
  ‘Sorry,’ I whisper.
  He stays still for a second, doesn’t look back, and then carries on going up. I wait for a gap to form between us then start to follow him again. There is a corridor at the top, leading left and right - all of the doors are closed.
  Dave motions for me to stay put, then goes left, gingerly working his way down the corridor, I watch how he walks, each foot is swung slow and purposefully; the heel going down first in an almost exaggerated manner, then he slowly moves forward and puts his weight onto the front foot then repeats the movement, in complete silence. At the first door, he stops and listens, craning his head, and then leans in closer, until his ear is almost touching the door, his mouth open.
  He eases the door open, steps inside and is back out within seconds. He repeats the action until all of the rooms on that end are clear. Then he creeps back to me and motions for me to move forward; I think he wants me to check my end.
  I start forward a few steps, copying his movement and putting my heels down first. It seems to take ages to work my way down. At the first door I stop and listen, but I can’t hear anything above my heart hammering away in my chest.