The Undead. The First Seven Days (4 page)

I lift the moped up and turn it around to face the undead crowd.
  This is an old style
twist and go
moped, no gears - it is used by students and teenagers to earn a few extra quid. The white box is battered and marked.
  I wheel the bike out into the road. The van is a few hundred metres away and I wave at the man who is still standing on the top. I try to point at the moped and show that I will drive away and try to get them to follow me.
  I know the area well: at the bottom of the High Street there is a roundabout that leads onto the main road out of town, not far now and I will be on the motorway, making good distance.

The man is waving at me and shouting, but I am too far away to hear what he is saying.
  I get on the moped and the fuel gauge is showing half a tank. I turn the keys to the off position and then back on. There is a red button marked START, I press it and the moped splutters and starts ticking over. The loud noise from the exhaust is so familiar to me from all of the times I have had take-away delivered and heard the moped come up the street.
  As the sun rises and daylight fills the street, I look back to the undead, expecting them to be already coming for me. My hand is on the rubber grip, ready to twist and pull away.

However, something is wrong… the outer ring of undead have turned and have started towards me but they are moving slower, much slower - they are shambling and dragging their feet in an awkward shuffle, barely at walking pace.
  They were fast before, not quite at running speed but they moved quickly and with purpose - like predators after prey - relentless and sustained.
  Now they are stumbling, as if they are walking through deep water; each step a struggle. I look all about, fearing some kind of trap, but they are all the same. Some are turning and heading my way, others are still standing round the van, but whereas before they had a menacing aura and an evil fast motion that was fuelled by a hunger for human flesh, now they are a stumbling mess. The steps they take are thudding with straight legs and arms hanging limp with heads lolling down. They keep knocking into each other, bumping away and going off course, unable to follow a straight path.

The man is still standing on top of the van. I raise my arm to him, palm up, the international signal for “…what the fuck?”

He raises two arms, palms up, the international signal for “…fuck knows.”
  I step off the moped and push the stand down with my foot, leaning the bike over to rest in situ, engine still running and ready to go.
  I take a couple of steps towards the mass crowd of undead, watching them move and shuffle. I can hear low groans, guttural growls and long, drawn out moaning noises. What’s happened? Why have they changed? Just a few moments ago they were frenzied and savage.

The crowd is still too thick to attempt a rescue; there are hundreds of them. About half are now turned in my direction, the rest are still surrounding the van.
  I go back to the moped and press the horn, a feeble warble sounds out, but I keep my finger pressed down on the button. This appears to focus the direction and they shuffle towards me. More of the undead further in the crowd turn away from the van and also start towards me, but there is no change in their speed or pace.
  I keep pressing the horn and twist the accelerator grip, thinking that I will rev the engine – but I forget that the moped has no gears and is a
twist and go
model.

The moped shoots forward and pulls me along, and, in my panic, I twist more and the moped pulls away faster; the kick stand banging into the road surface and propelling the moped off to the right. I slip and fall over; the moped veers off for a short distance and then crashes into a parked car with a loud bang. I hear the tinkling of glass as the headlamp is smashed. The moped comes to rest, engine spluttering and then dies out.
  I get to my feet and look back at the crowd and I see the man standing, with one of his hands over his forehead, his head slumped down. I feel embarrassed.
  I run over to the moped and lift it up again. It starts first time and I wheel it back into the road.
  Pressing the horn again, I wait until they get closer.

There is one undead out front, he must have been a late arrival to the party. This undead is a young man, maybe twenty years old, still in his designer jeans, tee-shirt - muscles showing from his tight top - hair gelled up in the middle in that
messy on purpose
style that I hate. At least his face has improved: a massive, ragged hole where his pouty sneer would have been. His flesh flaps and rows of teeth show through the gash in his cheek and there is blood all over the front of his once white tee-shirt and down his arms. There is also a dark stain across the crotch of his blue jeans, but it doesn’t look like blood, he must have pissed himself - which makes me feel better! I was terrified, but at least I didn’t wet myself.
  I’m not much older than him, but I’ve always hated the weekend town centre crowds. Preening, strutting fuckwits. My hair sticks up and is always messy, without the need for gels and sprays.
  I think back to the times when I had been out in the town at weekends; getting barged into by idiots like this who flare up with their arms puffed out and shouting: “…wot? D’yawantsomedoya…” while texting away on
Facebook
.

I’ve always worked, maybe it isn’t the best job, but I’ve held it down and made duty manager and I know that if I do the hated night shifts there will be a chance for promotion.
  No, there
was
a chance for promotion… that’s gone now, it’s all gone… everything has gone.

A deep sense of sadness fills me. I’m breathing hard as I think of all my work mates, most of them were no-hopers but they were an okay bunch. We had a laugh and got on well, shared jokes and stories: wildly exaggerated accounts of women we had been with, or not, as the real case was.
  The night shift was full of the rejects, the ones too daft or stupid to work during the day and there were some hard cases there too - blokes that simply couldn’t function in normal society, so they found a job that kept them away from the mainstream.
  I can feel anger building up, with the thought of my mates being savaged by monstrous, preening, pretty boys like this. They were always coming into the supermarket at night, especially after the clubs had kicked out, throwing stuff about and taking the piss out of the staff.
  I look up and watch the undead
pretty boy
come towards me, the anger is consuming me and I can feel my breathing becoming deeper and harder. He is only a few feet away now and I watch as he shuffles and groans. He is looking at me and I can see that his eyes are very bloodshot and entirely red. His skin is very pale and his mouth hangs open, with drool dripping down onto his chest.
  I draw the hammer from my waistband and step forward. Then I pull my right arm far out to the side and slam the hard metal into the side of his head. He goes down and I am on him instantly, repeatedly pounding the hammer into his head, shattering his face and crushing his skull.
  My arm is a piston, driving the blunt ended weapon into his head. Blood and brain matter spray up and coat me. My hands become slick and glistening; terror and rage mixing into a deadly cocktail and all reason is gone. I have bloodlust and I cannot be stopped until I have destroyed this thing beneath me.

I stand suddenly, becoming alert to my actions. What is left at my feet is not recognisable. The head is pulped, gone… destroyed.
  I destroyed it. I killed it. I killed the undead… my chest heaves as I struggle for air.
  A sudden movement to my right… an undead is there, lunging at me. In reflex, I swing the hammer out in a backswing and connect to the face as it leans in with teeth bared. The force drives the undead off to the side, spinning into a female zombie: a young woman wearing a nice, blue dress. She is full-figured with heaving cleavage and long brown hair, but her face is slack and her eyes are filled with blood. Spittle hangs down from her once pretty mouth.
  She staggers toward me, leaning forward from the waist, head straining from the neck, lips now pulled back - ready for the bite. I feel repulsed and step backwards; the mantra in my head: “
You never hit a woman
”.

I move further away and keep staring at the woman, she appears uninjured; no bite marks or blood on her - until I see the blood stains down her bare legs; a chunk of muscle in her right thigh has been gnawed away.
  To my left, another young male is coming at me. This one is tattooed all over his arms and on his neck. I lash out, smacking the hammer into the side of his face and he goes down. He keeps moving though and rolls onto his back, then sits up and gets back to his feet. As he raises up, I strike him again, harder, and I see his head snap to one side with a sickening crunch and he goes down again.
  Within seconds, he is on his back, sitting up. I spin the hammer round, so that the claw end is now the weapon and I step forward, driving it down into the top of his skull, cleaving through the bone. The force I use pushes the claw into his skull too hard and it sticks. I try pulling it out, but all I do is pull him towards me.
  I put my foot onto his chest and pull harder and the strength of my pull forces his body into my foot. I stagger backwards and fall down; the hammer is left sticking out the top of his head.

I get to my feet and realise how close the crowd are now, another minute or so and I will be overwhelmed. Their density is blocking my view of the van.
  I move backwards, no weapon now. I remember the bag on my back and I reach my hand down behind my head, groping about, but I can’t feel the knife handle that I left there. I pull the bag from my shoulders, as I keep moving in reverse.
  Every one of them is staring directly at me; hundreds of undead all coming for me - watching me. Long drawn out groans, hundreds of bloodshot eyes watching my every move… the still air filled with the sound of their shuffling feet.
  I watch as the fat man from last night tramples over the pulped remains of the pretty boy and, within seconds, he is gone from my view, engulfed by the swarm.
  My fingers are scrabbling for the zip to the bag’s main compartment.

I get my hand in and feel the plastic handle, and, taking hold, I pull the long kitchen knife out.

I am still moving backwards.

I look at the shiny blade, then at the mass of undead, then back to the blade. It looks puny and feeble now.
  ‘Fuck this,’ I mutter.
  I’m off, running away. I throw the knife off to the side, then regret the action immediately. I stop and go back, grabbing the knife and I start running again.

Towards the end of the street I slow down, I have gained a couple of hundred metres from the undead.
  The road has inclined very slightly and I step onto a bench to look over the crowd, I can see that the top of the armoured van is empty. The man has gone.
  I scan about for a few seconds, but I can’t see him; there is just a mass of undead on a slow march - a zombie protest - through the town.

I keep moving and, after a few minutes, I see a mountain bike propped up against a wall with no lock. I grab the bike and start pedalling, faster now, and, within minutes, I am out of the High Street and onto  the main road.

My parents live back the other way, but I will go on the main road and cycle back the long way.

I check behind me. There is nothing there. It feels eerie… no people, no cars or vans.

I know it’s still very early in the morning but there would normally be delivery trucks, milkmen, commuters; all slowing emerging as the day wakes up. Now there is nothing, it’s so quiet, then one of the pedals squeaks annoyingly and it sounds too loud in the still air.
  I haven’t cycled in a long time and it doesn’t take long before my thigh muscles are hurting.
  I neglected exercise for too long, working all night then sleeping in the day. I have been eating crappy food and drinking too many beers in front of the television. I’m paying for it now. I feel exhausted and drained and I slow down, unable to keep a decent pace.
  My parents’ house is a fifteen-minute drive away from mine. As I don’t have a car, my Dad would pick me up or I would get the bus.
  How long will it take to cycle to them?

I try to work it out: a car going at about 30 mph would take 15 minutes, so if I cycle at 15 mph it would take me half an hour.

I have no idea what speed I am doing, but it must be at least 15 mph.

I try to remember what speed normal walking pace is.

I’m sure it was on TV once… I think it was 4 or 5 mph, and I reckon I am going much faster than walking pace.
  My arse hurts and my legs are on fire; feeling weird and pumped up. I could take the side streets or the motorway… yes, the motorway will be much quicker.

I cycle down the junction and onto the motorway.

It is still early but very warm and the sweat is pouring from my face. I hold the bike steady with one hand, while I pull the bottom of my tee-shirt up and start wiping the stinging sweat from my eyes and face.
  I am in the outside lane, keeping clear of the sides, in case anything comes out at me.
  A noise from behind…a car engine, loud and fast. I drop my hand, look back over my left shoulder, and see a red car coming up behind me, the engine screaming out into the quiet air. I immediately put my hand up and start waving; the car is in same lane as me.