The Undead. The First Seven Days (25 page)

The hot fetid air is choking me and I feel overwhelmed.

Sun rays shimmer and dance, just above the ground. I glance around and it feels like the dark windows are watching us. This city was active, rough and violent but it had life; a vibrant life, full of people of all colours and backgrounds, now it’s empty and sullen.
  It’s only been a couple of days… what will it be like in a week, a month or a year?

Stick to the plan Howie - get your sister and get to the Forts. The Forts are strong and safe and will be full of good people: soldiers, policemen, doctors and nurses - there will be structure and order
.

‘I said it will be dark soon, Mr Howie.’
   He snaps me back to reality. I look at Dave, his quiet demeanour and manner, no chitchat or witty banter. He shows no signs that it affected him or had any impact - that was then, this is now.
  Despite everything that’s happened, he still calls me Mr Howie, and shows deference towards me.

I already owe my life to him, several times over.
  I stop walking and stand, staring at him.
  ‘Dave, why are you here with me?’
  ‘To get your sister, Mr Howie.’
  ‘No, I mean why did you come? Why go through all of this with me, just because of my sister. You didn’t have to come, you could walk away anytime you want.’
  ‘I work for you, Mr Howie.’
  ‘No, Dave. You worked for
Tesco
and that’s gone, it doesn’t exist anymore - you can do whatever you want now.’
  ‘Okay.’
  ‘So why come with me? Why do all of this?’ My voice is rising. ‘What about back there? You killed loads of people, Dave. You slit their throats and shot them, you shot them as they ran away - doesn’t that bother you?’
  ‘No, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Why? How can it not bother you?’
  ‘They would have killed us – killed you.’
  ‘But it’s only because you were with me that it happened in the first place, if you hadn’t come with me you wouldn’t have had to kill those people.’
  ‘Okay.’
  ‘No… it’s not okay, Dave.’ Exasperated, I’m ranting at him. ‘None of this is okay, and it’ll never be okay - never again. We stripped a man naked and beat him. We killed people, Dave. We took their lives away.’
  He stares back at me, his face still devoid of expression.
  ‘Some men got like this in the service.’
  ‘Got what?’
  ‘Got like this after combat, it’s normal.’
  ‘Normal? Fuck me, don’t you have it?’
  ‘No.’
  ‘Why ever not?’
  He shrugs and looks down at the ground.
  ‘I’m thick, Mr Howie.’
  ‘You’re what?’
  ‘I’m thick, too stupid.’
  ‘What? You aren’t thick.’
  ‘I know I am. I’m not like other people. I’ve always been like it; they always said I was.’
  ‘Who?’
  ‘In the service.’
  ‘They said you were thick, in the army?’
  ‘Yes.’
  ‘Dave… you are not thick. I’ve never seen anyone do what you have done. You have such amazing skills!
  ‘Really, Mr Howie?’
  ‘Seriously, Dave. I don’t know who trained you or what they trained you for, but it’s incredible.’
  ‘Thanks, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Okay, look mate, I’m sorry for sounding off. I shouldn’t have. It’s just… it’s fucking mental.’
   He nods, then goes back to scanning round, eventually looking up at the sky.
  ‘Will be dark soon, we should find shelter.’
  ‘It’s just gone 8 p.m., I think we should find a vehicle and get out of the city first, there’s some side roads up there, they must lead to houses, maybe we can find some car keys in one of them.’

A few minutes later and we are away from the big city buildings and into side streets again, it feels less oppressive here, these streets could be quiet at any time, so it doesn’t feel so unnatural; obviously the smashed in windows, burnt out cars and bodies lying everywhere are a little different to normal, but this is Portsmouth.
  We keep going, moving away from the epicentre of the mass civil unrest, there are still signs of devastation here, but less so. Another few streets over and we find some houses that look quite normal, with just the front doors open.
  ‘There’s a lot of undamaged cars here, Dave. I reckon most people try and park outside their own house - so what do you fancy? Sports car? Van? Something executive perhaps? Or shall we go for a four-wheel drive?
  ‘I don’t mind, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Oh, but sir must have a choice! Sir must choose from one of our exciting range.’
  Silence.
  ‘How about the colour sir? What colour would you like your vehicle to be? Metallic paint and alloys may incur an additional fee…’
  ‘How about that one?’
  Dave points to a very old, beaten up,
Skoda Fabia
.
  ‘You really can’t drive, can you?’
  ‘No.’
  I move on quickly and see a
Range Rover
parked up ahead, an older version, but still a good, robust vehicle.
  ‘Now that is more like it, what do you reckon?’
  Dave looks back at the
Skoda
,
then at the
Range Rover
and shrugs.
  ‘I don’t mind.’
  ‘You really have no taste Dave, no taste at all.’
  I try to keep the tone light, to make up for my outburst a short while ago. There’s something about Dave that makes me want to keep my head and wits about me, I feel a bit embarrassed about having a go at him, especially after what he said about being stupid.
  ‘Lets try in here,’
  We move up to the front door of the house next to the parked
Range Rover.
The door is shut and locked… I knock several times.
  ‘Hello, anyone there? We’re not zombies… we promise.’
   Silence from within, the door is UPVC double-glazed, strong and flexible and it will take some battering to get open.
  The house is terraced and there is no obvious way of getting to the rear. I step back and aim a kick at the central panel, there is a loud thump, and the door rattles, but remains undamaged. I lean the shotgun against the house and start aiming hard kicks, one after the other. Within minutes, I am breathing hard.
  ‘Mr, Howie.’
  ‘Hang on, mate.’
  I keep kicking at the door; it starts to give, but refuses to budge. The flexible material absorbs most of the energy from my kicks, rendering me pretty much useless. After several more kicks I give up and bend over, panting.
  ‘It’s no good mate, we’ll have to use the axe or find another house.’
  ‘What about this?’
  Dave is quietly holding a key in his hand. I straighten up and look at him.
  ‘Where did you get that?’
  ‘Under that gnome.’
  ‘Oh, good. You could have told me though.’
  ‘I tried to.’
  Again, I swear there is a glimmer in his eye.
  ‘Shall we then?’
  He steps up and unlocks the door, pushes it open and waits with the shotgun raised at waist height. He stands still and listens for several minutes. I know what’s coming… yep; here he goes, waving his hands around, twirling and pointing.
  ‘Dave, if there are zombies, just say.’
  He turns round to me.
  ‘I was saying to stay here and I’ll check downstairs.’
  ‘Okay mate, we really have to practise these hand signals though. I’ll wait here then.’
  He enters and starts checking each room, which takes seconds as the house is tiny;  just two rooms downstairs, a lounge and a kitchen - dining room at the back. He comes back to the front door.
  ‘Would you like me to check upstairs, old chap?’
  ‘Err…well…’
  ‘Tell you what, why don’t I stay at the door and you check it.’
  ‘Okay.’
   He’s up the stairs within seconds and I’m not surprised after my bumbling performance at the farm house. I hear him banging about and then he’s back down.
  ‘All clear.’
  ‘I wonder where they went to then?’
  ‘Who?’
  ‘The people that live here.’
  ‘They’re upstairs.’
  ‘You said that it was clear.’
  ‘It is.’
  ‘Then who is upstairs?’
  ‘The people that live here - I guess.’
  ‘Are they zombies?’
  ‘No.’
  ‘Then why haven’t they said anything or come down?’
  ‘They can’t.’
  ‘Why?’
  ‘They’re dead.’
    ‘Shit…’
  I run up the stairs into the bedroom and see an old couple in the bed, they are covered in the blankets, the woman is snuggled into the man, her head resting on his chest. They both have dried vomit stains round their mouths; there are two empty bottles of pills next to the bed.
  I stare at them for a few minutes, they look so peaceful and serene and it breaks my heart to see this; an old couple who made the choice to see the end in peace. Together in death, as in life.
  There is a photograph of young children clutched in the woman’s hand - they must be her grandchildren. I choke up and feel tears stinging my eyes. Suddenly, feeling like an intruder, I leave the room and gently pull the door closed.
  There are coats hanging in the hallway, I check through the pockets and find a set of car keys, a
Range Rover
fob on them.
  We lock the door and put the key back under the gnome, then I think better of it and put the key back into the door lock and leave it there. The house is secure and it might just save someone else’s life. I feel bad for the old couple, but the living will need it more than them now.
  Then an idea strikes me and I go back into the house and find some plain paper and a thick marker pen in a bureau in the lounge. I write the words “SAFE HOUSE” in big letters and stick the paper to the front door.

The
Range Rover
is lovely to drive, the
Tesco
van was bigger but this feels sturdier, more robust and capable - plus it’s dark green, which might help when we are out of the city.

We backtrack through the side streets, until we are back in town; it wastes a few minutes but at least this way we can stick to the directions that John gave us.
  ‘Shit! The fucking tank is almost empty! Trust us to pick the only car with no petrol!’
  I check my watch.
  ‘It’s almost 9 p.m. now mate, we’ve got less than hour before its dark. Keep looking for a fuel station.’
  ‘Oh… fuck it - there’s no power - the bloody pumps won’t work without power!’
  ‘We can siphon it.’
  ‘Do you know how to do that?’
  ‘Yes.’
  ‘Dave… you’re a bloody genius.’
  I check the fuel gauge, it’s on the right, so the filling cap will be on the right too. I pull the
Range Rover
up alongside a row of parked vehicles and cruise along, until we see one with a cap on my side.
  ‘We need a tube… and a jerry can.’
  ‘Oh… my fucking days - this just gets better and better, where can we get a tube from?’
  ‘I don’t know.’
  ‘It will take too long, we need to find another vehicle.’ I look at the sky.
  ‘And we need to be quick - keep your eyes open.’
  ‘For a fuel station?’
  ‘No, Dave - for a car we can use.’
  ‘Okay.’
  We drive away, looking left and right. All the vehicles in the area are either locked up tight or smashed to bits - some have been burnt out.
  The panic is rising in me, I remember the howling from the undead as night fell and then seeing them switch to fast moving, evil fuckers. I really don’t want to be here when that happens. Although having said that, we haven't seen any undead for a while now.
  ‘Stop! Go back, Mr Howie.’
  ‘What? What did you see?’
  I select reverse and pull the car back, adjacent to a junction on the left.
  ‘What am I looking at?’
  ‘Down there.’
  He points down the road and I look at the row of vehicles, until I see a large vehicle in the middle of the road; a recovery truck with an orange light bar on the top. The back of the truck is lowered down to the ground like a ramp. I turn in and drive towards it.
  ‘Dave, you beauty - well done, mate.’
  The recovery truck has a double cab and the words “POLICE RECOVERY” written on the side. I look to the row of vehicles and see a police car parked up, the recovery truck positioned ready to start winching it onto the back.
  The police car is an old
Ford Focus
and has seen better days. It must have broken down on Friday night and they called for it to be recovered; just as the world went nuts.
  ‘Mr, Howie.’
  We are both out of the
Range Rover
, Dave is up front, looking in the cab, while I stare at the police car. I walk round to the front. Dave is now looking intently at an undead policeman: black trousers, black shirt and bright yellow body armour. His belt is full of hanging things; leather pouches are all round his waist. The body armour has a walkie-talkie radio clipped on the front, his hands are ravaged down to the bone and there is blood all over his face and across the yellow body armour.
  He must have been on the ground, on his back, and punching up at them; his knuckles have taken most of the damage and I imagine him laid out, with undead leaning down into him; punching up repeatedly until they bit into his fists. Poor bastard. He is shuffling over towards us. There is a can of mace or pepper spray hanging from a lanyard attached to his belt.
  ‘Dave… you get what we need and I’ll take care of him.’
  I wait for him to get a little closer, then move away a few steps, leading him on, teasing him with my tasty flesh. I keep him busy, while Dave hunts round for whatever we need.
  ‘Got it!’
  He comes out of the cab of the truck, holding a length of pipe and a green, plastic fuel can. He takes this round to the police car and opens the fuel cap, sticks the bendy pipe in and starts sucking on the end, then suddenly spits out a mouthful of liquid and shoves the end of the pipe into the jerry can on the floor.
  I keep dancing around the undead copper; leading him a few steps one way, then back in another direction. I shouldn’t leave him here, he could get someone else if we leave him, but I don’t want to risk making too much noise now. I run back to the car and draw the axe out from the back seat and then go over to the undead policeman.
  Dave finishes filling the can and attaches a black spout to the hole. He then up-ends the can and starts pouring fuel into the
Range Rover
.
  ‘All done, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Right you are, Dave. I’ll just sort this one out.’
  I step forward and chop down into his head, which bursts apart; bone and flesh spewing out as he falls to the floor. I wipe the axe on his trousers and walk back to the
Range Rover
.
  As I’m putting the axe on the back seat, I look at the green fuel can on the ground, then at the open fuel cap on the police car and one word stops me in my tracks: DIESEL.