The Undead. The First Seven Days (26 page)

I run round the back of the
Range Rover
, hoping and praying that it has a letter D somewhere in the model type:
TDCi, TDC…
fucking anything, please
.

Nothing on the back, I open the fuel cap and my heart sinks: PETROL ONLY.

I shout out to Dave: ‘We’ve put diesel into the car and it only takes petrol. Fucking hell! Quick, check the recovery truck… are the keys in the ignition?’
  Dave runs off and sticks his head into the drivers side.
  ‘No.’
  ‘Bollocks! Fuck it, we’ll have to run. Get the stuff quick - we’ll have to go on foot.’
  ‘Why?’
  ‘You put diesel in the car and it only takes petrol.’
  ‘Oh, is that bad?’
  ‘Yes, mate, it won’t run - it’s fucked.’
  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Howie.’
  He looks distraught, the same look of panic and confusion that he had in the supermarket when I told him he should go home.
  ‘Don’t worry, it’s my fault - I should have checked.’
  ‘No… I’m so sorry,’
  ‘Dave, honestly, it’s okay - it’s really okay. Christ, look how many times I’ve fucked up!’
  I put my bag on and drop the axe down, before tightening the straps. Next, I break the shotgun and check that it’s loaded and ready.
  Within seconds, Dave is kitted up; the rifle on his back and the shotgun in his hands. We start off back the way we came, but, within a few steps, we stop.
  There are several undead shuffling down the road towards us. They must have come out of the buildings on the side, I look over and see more of them slowly emerging.
  ‘Fuck it! Back this way, come on.’
  We start running down the road and around the recovery truck and the now
dead
undead policeman.   The light is fading fast and we need to find somewhere quickly, so we keep running; there are loads of bodies here, all piled up on the pavements - like someone has shoved them out of the road.

‘Dave, we can’t hide here - they will see where we’ve gone and surround us. Let’s keep running, until we lose them, then find somewhere to hole up.’ I’m gasping for breath and speaking is hard.
  ‘Okay.’

The fit bastard is hardly out of breath yet.
  We run down a straight road towards a T-junction; the buildings on both sides prevent us from seeing any further than a few metres in either direction.
  The running causes the axe to slip down; it catches between my legs and trips me over, sending me sprawling forward. As I fall, I clench my grip on the shotgun and pull the trigger. A deafening bang and I shoot out into the side of a parked car; loud metallic ricochets as the pellets strike the vehicle.
  ‘Mr Howie, are you alright?’
  Dave runs back and helps me to my feet; my trousers are torn at the knees, which are both scuffed and bleeding.
  ‘Sorry mate, I shot that car.’
  ‘Keep your hand away from the trigger, until you need it, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Yeah, good advice mate.’
    I wince as I get up, my knees both hurt and I have grazed my left hand. I take the axe in one hand and the shotgun in the other and we keep running, although a little bit slower now.
  We reach the end of the road and ahead of us there is one long, grey building running both directions. Off to the left, blocking the road entirely, is a massive crowd of undead - they are a couple of hundred metres up the road, but there are loads of them. They seem to all face towards the grey building, but the crowd is too dense for me to see what they are looking for.
  We look right, the road ends at a set of very high blue metal gates that are topped with rolls of razor wire and have sharp spikes at the pinnacle. We look round, desperately trying to see an avenue of escape.
  ‘We’ll have to go back and enter one of the houses.’
  Some of the undead in the crowd must have heard the gunshot and have started in our direction already, with more peeling away towards us.

The last tendrils of light fade and the shadows drop; daylight has gone and night is upon us. The crowd stop, as one, and we look back up the road; there are undead behind us now blocking our escape route. We go towards the blue gates and try pushing and pulling them but they are locked fast - we might be able to climb up, but the razor wire at the top will cut us to pieces.
  Dave drops down onto one knee and shrugs his bag off, then he opens the main compartment and takes out a plastic bag full of rifle ammunition and lays it on the ground. Next, he fills his pockets with shotgun shells, then puts the bag back on.
  This is it then, no way back… and no way forward. I look up at the horde as they stand stock still, take my cartridge shell bag and fill it up, then tie it off on my belt, the way Dave did; the hole ready for my hand to dip into.
  I look back up, the horde stops swaying and all raise their heads at the same time; looking toward the sky. They are in deep shadows now, the power has gone and the street lighting won’t come on now - or ever again, probably.
  The undead off to the right are doing the same. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Then they howl as one. They make one long, continuous, drawn out, blood chilling roar - the noise is immense and my throat goes dry, my hands are shaking and I’m glad that I’m not using that rifle; I’d probably miss all of them.
  I can feel my knees weakening. I heard this first last night; the zombie howl, but I only had one undead in front of me then, now there are hundreds with the same, deep, guttural bellow.
  I look to Dave but he doesn’t flinch. He shows the
E shows the the
same impassive look, his hands are steady and he has no sign of nerves. I take comfort from his courage.
  ‘Dave, I just want to say… what the fuck is that?’
  He looks at me in puzzlement, but I’m looking over his shoulder at the light on in the window behind him. There is a light on… in a building with power. Then, the light goes out and the window goes black like the rest.
  ‘That light went on and off - there’s someone in there.’
  I look deeper into the shadows and see a door secreted in the corner, there is a concrete ramp leading up to it and it’s recessed in a small porch area; it was hidden from view before and now only seen because we are up against the gates.
  ‘Fuck me! There’s a door.’
  I race over and start banging and shouting, the door is metal and I use the flat of my fists to rain hammer blows down on it.
  The roaring stops as hundreds of undead cease howling at the same time, then they begin to stare directly at us; the spasmodic head lolling is gone, they are the evil, fast, undead once more.
  The closest undead is focused on Dave; the red eyes holding his gaze.

Dave raises the rifle and gets his position ready. There is a long pause, then the undead takes a staggering step forward and Dave shoots him in the face, blowing him backwards.
  Dave slams the bolt and fires again and again.

I keep hammering at the door, yelling and kicking.

The rifle cracks are so quick together, only the slightest of pauses while Dave reloads, then he repeatedly fires. The speed and accuracy is awesome, almost every bullet strikes a head.
  They are moving now, gathering speed and coming straight at us. Dave pauses to lift the shotgun that was resting against his leg, and blasts both barrels at the front of the crowd. From this distance, the pellets spread and there is a ripple effect as bodies are slammed backwards into the dense crowd. The effect is marginal; for every one he drops, more are coming; filling the gaps.
  I give up hammering at the door and start back towards him, ready to stand by his side; we’ll go down together.

A buzzing sound behind me, on and off, urgent and loud. I glance back and the buzzer keeps sounding, then there is a clicking noise coming from the door.
  ‘Dave we’re in… come on!’
  He glances back at me, as I push the door open and bright light floods the area. Dave grabs the shotgun and runs over.
  ‘My axe…’
   It’s still leaning against the gates. I run forward and grab it and they are almost on me now. I race back and lunge through the open door. Dave is already inside and slams the door shut, as I clear the entrance, but the undead are already on the other side, trying to push in.

Dave braces against the door, I join him and we fight to push the door closed; finally getting it home with an audible click.

We are in a brightly lit, small room.

There is a wooden bench on one side, fixed to the ground with big bolts. At one end of the room is a small cubicle with a heavy looking door made of thick metal bars and there is a sheet of thick plastic fixed on the outside.
  There is another solid metal door at the end of the room - like the one we just came through.

Frayed and peeling posters are on the walls, telling people to take their offences into consideration and that they are entitled to legal advice.

One of the posters is massive and appears to have the same paragraph in many different languages.

One last sign catches my eye:

“OFFICERS SHOULD WAIT UNTIL THE CHARGE ROOM IS CLEAR, BEFORE TAKING THE DETAINED PERSON THROUGH.”
  A hatch opens in the door at the end and a small face peeks out.
  ‘Oh… thank god - thank you so much.’
  ‘Are you infected?’ asks a female voice, high pitched and squeaky - but authoritative.
  ‘What? No, no of course not.’
  ‘You are bleeding.’
  ‘I fell over and grazed my knees. I promise you we are not infected - we haven’t been bitten or scratched… nothing.’
  The hatch closes and we hear muffled voices, it opens after a few seconds.
  ‘We need to make sure you are not infected, strip off.’
  ‘Strip off? Now hang on a minute, you can see we’re okay.’
  ‘I’m not arguing with you. Strip off or get out.’
  Dave and I look at each other - he shrugs and drops the bag from his shoulders, taking the
Tesco
fleece off.
  ‘Now… hang on a minute - this is a police station right? You are meant to protect us.’
  ‘Listen to me, you are bleeding and you are both armed - you won’t get through this door and I can easily unlock the outer door and let them in.’
  I drop my bag too and start pulling my top off.

Dave is sitting on the bench, taking his boots off. I join him and we carry on in silence until we are both clad only in our boxer shorts.
  I glance at Dave, he is small built, but his body is hard with lean muscle; he hasn’t got an ounce of fat on him and his thigh muscles look solid.

I look down at my wobbly stomach and un-toned body in embarrassment; actually it looks like my tummy has gone down a bit in the last couple of days, probably through lack of food. I’m not fat, just not lean or defined.
  We both stand in our boxer shorts and a face looks out and over our bodies; then the hatch closes and again we hear muffled voices.
  ‘Pants off now.’
  She’s back speaking through the hatch again.
  ‘What?’
  ‘We have to be sure you are not bitten, so pants off!’
  Quietly seething, but with no choice, I take my boxer shorts off and step out of them, covering my privates with my hands. Dave stands with his arms at his sides and eyes fixed ahead.
  ‘Drop your hands and turn round.’
  I take my hands away and copy Dave by staring at a spot on the wall. We both shuffle round, keeping our gazes up. Back facing her, she has a lingering look at Dave, before barking her next order: ‘Get dressed.’
  The hatch is slammed shut and we look at each other and get dressed.
  ‘They won’t let us in with the weapons, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Shit! Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s see what happens.’
  After we get dressed, the hatch re-opens and the woman looks out, her face pinched and stern.
  ‘Well done. Now… if you want to come in, you will have to leave those weapons there.’
  Dave was right.

‘Do we get them back later?’
  She pauses for a minute, before answering.
  ‘We’ll see about that… right… put the guns over by that far wall and stand in front of the door. And the bags too…’
   A minute later, we are standing as directed, in front of the door with all of our kit stacked up in the corner. Dave keeps glancing back at the weapons.
  ‘Right, hands on your heads and we’ll open the door. I want you to step in, but keep your hands on your heads, right?’
  ‘Okay.’
  We both put our hands up on the top of our heads, there is a buzzing sound and the door is pulled open.
  The room inside looks long and narrow but, as I step in, I realise that the wall to my right is in fact a very high desk, with a larger space behind it.
  The walls are bare concrete, painted a very pale cream colour, the floor is also bare - apart from two painted feet, at the bottom of a long ruler, measuring up to seven feet.

There are monitors attached to the wall, showing CCTV images and I can see the horde of undead cramming up to the back door; other images show corridors and exit doors within the building. One of the images is of a man lying down on a bench, the room he’s in looks like a larger version of the room we were just in. A very young looking policeman is facing us, aiming a bright yellow, plastic thing.
  ‘Don’t move or you’ll be tasered.’ The boy policeman barks at us, his face is set and I can tell he is trying to look tough, but his hands are shaking.
  ‘Okay mate, no problem.’
  The woman that spoke to us through the hatch has retreated behind the desk, just her head pokes over the top. She looks to be in her late thirties, her face is pinched and there are lines round her mouth where she keeps pursing her lips. She looks different and I realise that she isn’t wearing any make-up, which is very odd in this day and age; her face is quite harsh and she looks mean.
  ‘Right, you are going to be searched, while PC Jenkins covers you with the taser.’
  ‘Okay, miss.’
  ‘It’s not miss, it’s Sergeant!’ She says, clearly annoyed.
  ‘Okay, sorry…err… Sergeant.’
  A silence descends while PC Jenkins and the Sergeant stare at us, then at each other, then back to us.