The Undead. The First Seven Days (20 page)

I lean into the first door, still can’t hear anything. I take hold of the handle and twist it back, the handle squeaks really loudly and I stop twisting. I look back at Dave who nods for me to carry on. I keep twisting the handle - which sounds like it’s screaming in protest. The door suddenly gives and I push it open too fast, almost tripping in and banging the axe against the frame.
  This time I don’t look back. I’m too embarrassed to face him. I know that his face will be blank, but he still manages to convey a message through that vacant gaze. I peer into the room - it’s all clear.
  I move off down the corridor, treading carefully and trying to show that I can do this too.
  At the next door, I grasp the handle and hold my breath as I twist.

Silence.

I breathe a sigh of relief and start to push the door open, which creaks loudly on the hinges.

For fuck’s sake this is a conspiracy, how did he get all of the silent handles and doors
?

I keep pushing slowly, the hinges creak and groan. I stop, pushing slowly is making it worse, if I push it open quickly the hinges won’t grate so much. I heave with force, to a cacophony of metallic screams. At least the room is clear.
  The final door is facing the corridor and again I take hold of the handle and push the door.
  It opens into a large bathroom: white tiles, white bath and white shower curtain round the bath, nice and bright - apart from the large pool of blood on the floor.
  There is an undead female standing in the middle of the pool of blood, she is dressed in a white nightdress.
  She is fat, incredibly fat, quite possibly one of the fattest people that I have ever seen… she must be the farmers daughter.
  The white nightdress has thin sleeves, which only serve to accentuate the rolls of fat on her upper arms. She has very long, dark hair and there is a wooden-handled hairbrush tangled in her flowing locks.
  She slowly turns round to face me and I see the red, bloodshot eyes. At first I am puzzled as I can’t see a wound on her, but there is blood everywhere and it’s also soaked into the lower part of her nightdress. Her wrist has been bitten deeply, flesh torn away and there’s a gaping hole. The injury must have opened an artery.
  I look back at Dave and raise my hand to the side of my head, making a fist. He nods, then I extend one finger and point into the room, again he nods. Then I puff out my cheeks, hold my arms out and waddle slightly on the spot, while motioning to the door behind me - he just stares at me.
  I keep waddling on the spot holding my arms out and pretending to rub my big belly. Dave looks so serious and, after the tension of creeping down the corridor, I let go and start giggling like a schoolboy. Then I pretend to brush my hair and extend one finger and point it into my pretend hair. Within seconds, I am trying to stifle my laughter but the undead farmer’s daughter starts waddling towards the door and I back away.
  She is taller than me and the girth of her is amazing; puffed cheeks making her mouth look small and pouty.
  I back off down the corridor, still trying to stop myself laughing. She makes it to the doorway and gets stuck face on; too fat to get through. She keeps pushing forward though, grunting and straining against the effort.
  That’s it; I’m gone. Tears of laughter are falling down my face and I’m leaning against the wall. All of the stress of the last few days have built up and the sight of the fat, undead, unable to walk through the door has finished me off.
  I try to be quiet at first, but knowing that we have to be silent makes it worse and I can’t stop myself from howling. Within minutes, my stomach is hurting, I manage to get myself under control, then look back at her, she has wedged herself into the doorway now, her stomach is pushing through, but her shoulders and arms can’t fit and she is sort of leaning back and trying to get through, belly first. I’m off again, sliding down the wall onto the floor, the laughing is hurting, but I can’t stop. I try to look at Dave but the tears have misted my eyes, I imagine him standing there, stony faced.

It takes many minutes, but eventually I get myself under control and get back up. Dave is standing there, impassive as ever, but I swear there is a glint in his eye.

We make our way down the stairs and stare at the kitchen door; there was no sign of a gun cabinet anywhere upstairs. The only place left to check is the kitchen and the room on the other side.
  ‘What do you reckon? We could lead them out again.’
  Dave nods and I check my watch.
  ‘It’s gone 5 p.m. already. Shit! We really have to get going.’
  ‘Okay.’
  He walks straight into the kitchen, disappearing round the door. Two loud thumps follow within seconds. I walk in and see both undead on the floor. The farmer’s wife is almost decapitated; the white spinal column showing through her severed neck. Dave reaches over and pulls the male undead on top of the farmer’s wife, showing his OCD for tidiness.

The humour is fully gone from me now.
  The brutal yet reserved nature of this man is staggering. His mind must be so straight forward when he is completing a task, whether it’s filling shelves at
Tesco
or severing the head of a zombie farmer’s wife.

Dave has positioned the bodies now, so that the blood flow from the farmer’s wife soaks into the male undead, who, in turn, is dripping his blood onto her dress.
  The door leads into the utility area which houses an old, stained kitchen top with a deep, white ceramic sink, dirty pairs of rubber boots and there are also overalls hanging from rails. There are two washing machines, labelled: HOUSE and FARM.
  There is a back door to the right, to the left is the promised bounty: a large, metal cabinet fixed on the wall; complete with massive padlock hanging from a clasp. The padlock has a thick, metal loop, and the clasp has multiple strong rivets securing the cabinet.

Dave joins me and I point at the cabinet.
  ‘I bet the farmer has the key in his pocket.’
  We start searching the area, checking drawers and the pockets of the overalls, we find keys, but none of them fit the padlock. I pull at the padlock, in the vain hope that he left it unlocked. The padlock is at head height. I take a step back and reverse the axe, so that the blunt end will be used.
  ‘Watch out, mate.’
  Five minutes later and I’m out of breath, the metal casing is dented and buckled, but the padlock is holding fast. I try wedging the blade of the axe into the gap of the cabinet door, but I can’t get enough leverage.
  ‘Fucking thing! Any suggestions, mate?’
  I look round but Dave is gone. The back door is open and I walk over to look out. Dave is walking back towards the farmhouse, holding a sledgehammer and a metal spike with a flat end.
  He holds the flat end between the gap of the padlock and clasp, then hands me the sledgehammer. The spike isn’t that big; if I miss I could break his arm or crush his hand.
  ‘Let’s swap.’
  We move places and I hold the spike. The area is confined and I have to stand close to the cabinet. I want to move back and extend my arm, but it’s too cramped. Dave swings the hammer and hits the spike with expert precision. It jams in and starts to buckle the clasp out. A few more hits and the clasp comes away. I pull my arm back and rub my hands together… he didn’t hit me, but the vibration still sent shockwaves up my arm.
  Dave opens the cabinet door: there are three long shotguns, easily recognisable with two barrels and big, brown bases. There is also a long camouflage bag in the cabinet. Dave takes this out and lays it on the work surface. A long zip runs the length of the bag; Dave tugs this down and pulls out a long wood and metal rifle. The barrel looks very slim, compared to the shotguns. There is a bolt sticking out of the metal frame, above the trigger.
  There is a separate compartment in the bag and Dave takes out a scope and another bag containing oils and what look like cleaning materials.
  ‘What is it?’
  ‘Lee Enfield point three, zero three, bolt action rifle.’
  ‘Is that good?’
  ‘Yes.’
  Within seconds, the gun is separated into parts; Dave’s hands working like machines.

He checks the separate sections and then puts it back together. Then he pulls the bolt back several times and listens to the sound. Satisfied, he turns to the shotguns and takes them out of the cabinet, laying them on the worktop.
   Two of them have barrels side by side, the other one also has two barrels but one on top of the other; they are heavy and feel alien to hold.

I push the wooden end of one into my shoulder and look down the barrel. There are two triggers, one in front of the other. I guess it’s one trigger for each barrel.
  There is a lever where the metal barrel meets the wooden bit. I push this over and the shotgun bends in the middle. I remember that shotguns have cartridges, not bullets. The cartridges must just slot in the holes; close the barrel and pull the triggers. I’ve seen it done on television and movies and it looks simple enough.
  There are boxes of bright, red cartridges in the cabinet. They are marked
12 Gauge.
I’ve heard of that but don’t know what it means, something to do with the size of the shell? Or the little pieces inside?
  Dave has found a shoulder strap for the rifle and has fitted it on, checking the length and making adjustments, until he seems satisfied. I guess he has chosen the rifle then, after my debacle in the corridor upstairs he probably wouldn’t trust me with a paintball gun.

He next takes a box of shiny, brass bullets, picks up the shotgun with the two barrels on top of each other and heads out of the back door. I take the other two shotguns and boxes of the shiny, red cartridges and follow him out into the bright sunshine.
  He stops in the middle of the central yard area, outbuildings are on both sides, and there is a large open-sided barn ahead of us, with a field on the other side. I watch as Dave holds the rifle and looks down the sights, aiming into the empty barn; he pulls the trigger and listens to the noise - I’m sure they call it
dry firing
.
  Dave takes a strip of bullets; all stuck together in a line, and presses them into a hole in the top of the gun, then he raises it to his shoulder and pulls the bolt back and forth once. He aims into the barn and fires, the sound is really loud and I was expecting him to be jerked back from the recoil, but he hardly seemed to move. He quickly slides the bolt and a shiny bullet case springs out, he fires again and repeats the action, until the bullets are all gone. The sudden percussive bang sounds out into the quietness of the farm. He lowers the rifle, so that it’s pointing into the ground and turns round to face me.
  ‘You try.’
  I take the rifle and he shows me how to pull the bolt back and push the strip of bullets in, then how to use the bolt to get the first bullet ready. He pushes the butt of the rifle into my shoulder and extends my left hand, so it is holding the rifle on the wooden frame underneath the barrel. He then aligns my finger to the trigger and steps back.
  ‘Squeeze gently.’
  I pull the trigger; the recoil feels awful, jerking my shoulder back with a violent push. I have no idea where I am aiming for. I do the bolt thing and try again, repeating the action.
  The recoil frightens me and I feel myself bracing in readiness. I end up closing my eyes. I fire three times and hand the rifle back, trying to do what he did and point the rifle down to the ground.
  ‘I’m no good at it mate, you use it. We’ll just waste bullets if I keep trying.’
  He nods and picks up one of the shotguns, breaks it and pushes a red cartridge into each hole, slamming the barrel closed.
  He steps forward and again raises the gun into his shoulder. His finger pulls the first trigger then drops back and pulls the second one. Both times, there is a loud bang, but he hardly moves from the recoil. I pickup another shotgun and copy his actions; breaking the gun, pushing the red cartridge in and snapping it closed.
  I brace my feet and fire. The first blast feels almighty and slams me backwards - I’m more prepared for the second barrel and the recoil doesn’t feel so bad.

I turn round and see Dave coming back out of the house, carrying more boxes of shotgun cartridges.

There are enough for me to keep practising with and so I keep going: breaking; reloading; snapping back; fire; fire and repeat. Soon, my ears are ringing from the noise and the ground is littered with spent casings.
  I feel a tap on my shoulder and see Dave pointing off to the side. There is a male undead coming out of one of the outbuildings, drawn by the noise and action. He is also fat, but this one clearly works and has big, meaty shoulders and arms.

I look at Dave: ‘I thought farmers led healthy lives!’
  He just shrugs and takes the rifle back out of the bag; pushes in another strip of bullets and raises it to his shoulder, aiming at the fat undead. He fires and the undead is thrown backwards, hitting the side of the buildings and slumping down. There is a small hole in the front of his forehead but the back of his head is spread across the peeling boards; brain and bits of flesh dripping onto the undead’s face.
  ‘Shit! I’ve never seen that before.’
  I’ve just watched a man being shot in the head, my heart is racing and I feel weird. We have killed countless with hand weapons but nothing like this.
  It was so easy; he just lifted the gun and pulled the trigger. For the first time in my life, I realise why firearms are so talked about; their power is staggering. I’ve watched hundreds of war films and seen news reports of war footage, but I guess that I became desensitised over the years. It was just make believe or footage from somewhere far away. The sheer brutality of it; point and shoot and you make someone die. I’m suddenly very uncomfortable here and I want to leave, I want to be back in the safety of the van and moving away.
  I pick up the two shotguns with the side-by-side barrels, and then try to carry the boxes of cartridges and the axe, but there is too much. The rifle goes in a back with a strap, but then Dave has the other shotgun and more boxes of ammunition - plus the knives. I don’t want to lose anything or put anything down, the axe is a brilliant weapon but the shotguns are too good to lose. I have another axe in the van but there is something stopping me from putting it down, I want both of my axes. Dave sees my dilemma and puts the rifle strap over his shoulder and the knives into his belt, and then takes one of the shotguns from me. Loaded down with weapons we head back down the lane, stopping halfway, so that I can hop into the bushes and open my bowels again.