The Undead. The First Seven Days (9 page)

I turn and walk to the car, the bottom of my bat is covered in blood and bits of gore. It smears on the seat as I get in.

I pull away and can see the shop door closing as I go.

I drive the short distance to my parent’s house, it’s quiet and I do not see any undead.
  My parents moved here a few years ago; the old house was the family home. This is their new house and it feels different, still homely and welcoming, but it’s not the same.
  My Dad retired from full-time employment two years ago, he was an engineer for a telecoms company and had a good retirement package, but he quickly got bored of playing golf and went back as a part-timer.
  My sister and I bought him a new set of clubs for his 60
th
birthday. Well, I say
we
bought them - my sister paid most of it as she earns a fortune. I paid what I could, but still, it’s the thought that counts.
  Their new house is detached and modern, and the large driveway is empty, Dad bought a new
Toyota
when he retired and always leaves it on the driveway; proudly cleaning it at every opportunity.
  The driveway is empty...

I leave the
Micra
on the street, engine off, but keys in the ignition, ready to go. I walk towards the house; the front door is closed, and all the windows are shut. There is a gate to the rear garden but it’s locked and too high to climb.
  I check the front door - it’s unlocked and I enter. I wait for a minute in the hallway, stairs ahead of me. The hallway leads to the kitchen; to the left is the lounge with the door open. The dining room is to my right. There is no sound and I close the front door behind me.
  I want to call out but don’t want to risk alerting any undead that I am here. I go into the lounge and then the dining room and finally the kitchen; there are two half-drunk mugs of coffee on the side, both are cold.
  I go upstairs with my bat raised, but find nothing in the two guest rooms and the bathroom is clear.
  My parent’s room is also vacant; the drawers are empty and thrown around and the wardrobe is open - there are clothes lying about. It looks like they were in a rush. So they must be aware of what’s happening. I go back downstairs and check the rooms again. There is an open notepad on the dining-room table with a handwritten note in my mothers writing:

Howie,

Dad got a phone call last night from an old colleague working in France, they said what was happening, awful things. Dad spoke to your sister. Sarah is safe at home, locked in and secure. The phone line went down when we were talking to her. We kept trying to call you but all the numbers were engaged. We are going to come and get you, but I suppose if you are reading this, then we have missed each other.

Stay here Howie, we will try your place and come back here before we get Sarah. We left the front door unlocked, in case you left your key behind. You can lock the door though, we both have our keys.

Please stay here Howie, we will be back soon.

Love, Mum and Dad.

I read the note over a few times… Sarah is safe, thank god. The relief is massive.
  I know they will come back here before they do anything. I feel so weary now, hungry and exhausted. In the kitchen I find a Cornish pasty in the fridge and wolf it down within seconds - followed by another. I make a mug of tea, as the electricity and gas are still on.
  I try the home phone but find it dead – there is not even a dial tone. I check the router: lights flashing red, no Internet and no phone line.
  I lock the front door and go upstairs into the bathroom.

I am filthy and covered in blood, gore and dirt.
  I look at my hands, they are blood stained, and the nails are crusted and grimy. I strip off and have a hot shower. I wonder how long it will be before the power goes off… might as well take the opportunity now.
  I soak and scrub myself, the water runs red at first and I keep scrubbing, until the filth is washed away.
  My clothes are too dirty to put back on but my Dad is a much bigger build than me and I know that his clothes won’t fit me. These clothes need to be thrown away; the blood could be infectious, but then I would have nothing to wear.
  I remember that there are some old clothes of mine in bin liners in the loft. I had left them at the old house and Mum kept nagging me to go and sort them out, which I never did.

I wrap a towel around my waist.

The loft hatch is in the hallway and I find the long stick from my parent’s room; the hatch opens downwards and a folding metal ladder extends down. I climb into the loft and turn the light on, the loft is boarded out and I can see a pile of black bags with white sticky labels marked “Howie” on them.
  I find an old pair of faded blue jeans; I used to live in these years ago. I grab a plain, white tee-shirt, then I figure out that the white colour won’t blend in too well, and so I keep looking through the bag, until I find an old, black, v-neck jumper. I check that the jeans still fit; they are a little tight around the waist, but they will have to do.

Finally, with nothing left to do but wait, I go into the lounge and lay down on the sofa, thinking through all that has happened.

Within seconds, my eyes are heavy and my breathing has slowed. I jerk awake a couple of times, my body twitching, but, eventually, I drift off to sleep.

DAY TWO

I try to imagine a world map. Europe is joined to Russia, which is joined to Asia and other places I don’t know the name of.
  Does Asia join America somewhere?
  My lack of geography knowledge shocks me.

If the infestations spread across Europe so quickly, surely other places would be affected. Maybe some islands have been able to prevent entry to people and keep themselves safe.
  There must be
some
safe places. The Americans have strategic policies for everything. They would have initiated some lock down protocol, but then all the movies show the top brass going to underground facilities while the masses suffer, and some handsome underdog hero that everyone said would never make the grade, somehow saves the day and gets the girl.
  A sudden thought hits me. If the problem is restricted to Europe, the other counties wouldn’t allow it to spread. They would try to destroy it, and destroy
us
in the process. Nuclear bombs would be sent into every major capital and city. We would be annihilated. But… if places outside Europe are infected too, there is no hope.
 
We are fucked either way
.

I get up and go into the kitchen, taking a glass and running the cold tap. I rinse my face first and then fill the glass with water.
  As I take big gulps, I suddenly get an image of rotting, undead corpses floating in reservoirs, infecting the water supply.
  I spray the contents of my mouth out; water soaking the window in front of me. How does the water supply work? I have no idea. You turn the tap on and water comes out – but where does it come from? The water is treated, so there must be treatment places where they add chemicals. There was something in the news years ago about water companies adding fluoride to the supply - but I don’t remember why that was a bad thing.

How easy would it be to infect the water supply?

I stare at the remaining contents of the glass… the water looks normal. It’s clear, and there is no noxious smell or odour. I didn’t taste anything foul when I first drank it, but the thought is there now.
  Maybe if I boiled the water that would make it safe.

What would Ray Mears do? He would use earwax and moss and make a slingshot from cow turds, before building a tree house city and living like a demigod.

I wonder what Ray Mears is doing now? Has he survived? It would be ironic if the television survival experts were now also undead, roaming around Welsh valleys, biting sheep.

The water I spat out is dripping down from the window.

I look out and see that it is still light outside. I check my watch, it is 9 p.m. I slept for hours; it must have been midday or maybe 1 p.m. when I finally lay down on the sofa. My parents should have been back hours ago. Where are they? There is no way of contacting them.
  I go into the lounge and check the router: still red flashing lights; no phone line.

In my panic I left my mobile phone at my house!
  They said to stay here and wait, but that was hours ago. It would only have taken them an hour, at the most, to get to Boroughfare and back.
  I think back to the massive horde of undead in Boroughfare town centre. If my parents had driven anywhere near the town centre, they could easily have become overwhelmed. I hope that my Dad would have the sense to avoid going through there.

I should wait here, but if they are not back now, then something must have happened. I head into the dining room, and write a note, telling my parents that I waited until 9 p.m., and that I am going to check Boroughfare, then I will come back here. I tell them to wait here, lock up and stay safe.

I turn to go, but go back to the note, an afterthought added to my letter:
  Don’t drink the water!

My bag is still in the
Micra
, and I take my bat from beside the sofa. The end of the bat is filthy, with crusted blood and bits of dried gore. I go back to the kitchen and start running it under the tap. What am I doing? Who cares if the bat is dirty? I start towards the front door, then stop and go back to the kitchen and out into the garden; looking round for any other weapons I could use. I don’t want to use knives, as their range is too short, unless I could find a sword; but swords are not exactly a household item.
  Nothing in the garden.

I open the back door to the garage and step in. Dad is an engineer, so he must have tools.
  There are gardening tools: hoes and shears. The shears are good, but, again, the range is too short - I want something long to keep them away. A garden fork? But it would get impaled easily and stick in the body. A metal spade? No, it lacks the striking power. Then I see an axe hanging from the head, and a plastic cover over the metal end. The handle is longer than the bat; tough plastic with a rubber grip. I take it from the hook and pull the plastic cover off. The metal end is shiny, unused. The blade looks sharp. Not sharp enough to cut my finger when I press gently, but I can imagine the damage that it could do. The other side of the metal head is squared off; a perfect blunt instrument.
  The axe is heavier than the bat too, and it feels comforting. I should ditch the bat, but it has proven to be a very good weapon, and I feel reluctant to lose it… maybe I could use both.
  In the garden, I practise swinging both at the same time, fending off imaginary undead. I end up clashing the things together - they feel clumsy and awkward.  Plus… I will need both hands to generate the power of force needed.

I leave the bat in the hallway, by the front door, and step outside into a lovely, warm summer evening; the air is still and soundless.
  The
Micra
is gone!

I left it on the road outside the house, and now it has bloody gone.

I look up and down, but there is no sign of it.

I start walking out of the estate. I’m sure there were cars on the driveways before, but now most are empty.
  It takes me several minutes to get down onto the main road, then I start towards the shop, hoping there will be something I can use. It’s still light, but that won’t last. It will be dark in less than an hour.
  I start jogging, holding the axe in my right hand.
  The shop comes into view, and, as I get closer, I see cars parked outside in the road. There are more bodies on the ground too. There were five earlier, but it looks to be at least double that amount now.
  My
Micra
is parked amongst the other cars, looking small amongst
BMW
’s,
Mercedes
and
Range Rovers
.

I head towards the
Micra
, but the doors are locked.
  The shop door opens, and a man steps out and walks a few steps towards me.
  ‘Can I help you?’ he asks, in a polite, but firm voice.
    This man is older, maybe in his fifties; dark hair, greying and swept back. He looks refined and cultured.
‘Hi, this is my car,’ I point at the
Micra
.
‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure there must be some misunderstanding.’
  More men come out from the shop. They gather behind the older man. A collection of weapons held in their hands: knives, bats, metal poles. Another man steps out from behind the crowd. A double-barrelled shotgun rests across the crook of his arms.
  This is clearly a deliberate act to show me he is armed. The group look menacing with stern faces.
  ‘What’s going on? Why are you all here?’ I keep my tone polite.
  ‘Ah, well, you see. There is food here. Food and supplies and well… we thought we would take care of it and keep it secure, if you like. Until the authorities can get a grip on this, er… situation,’ he pauses. ‘Of course… you are welcome to join us.’
  ‘Thank you, but I need to get to Boroughfare. My family went there looking for me. I need to try and find them.’
  A deep voice from the back, ‘Boroughfare’s gone mate!’
  ‘Yeah, I know – I was there at the time. May I ask what happened to the Asian family that owns this shop? A woman and her two children?’
  ‘Ah, I see, yes… no sign of them, I’m afraid. We came down from the estate a few hours ago. Well, the ones that are left did, anyway. We got together and decided to make our base here, because there’s plenty of supplies, and it’s on the main road.. and all that,’ he speaks with a clipped, almost military manner.
  ‘Okay, they must have gone then. Did you see a note? They said they would leave a note, saying where they were going.’
  ‘Ah, yes, there was a note, but not in English - so none of us could read it, you see.’
  ‘That makes sense. Did any of you hear the radio message about the Forts?’
  Looks pass between them, a sudden interest, and I can see they are all looking at me keenly. Some of the men from the back move round, so that they are closer.
  ‘The Forts. What Forts are those? We haven’t heard any radio message. Was it an emergency broadcast? We’ve been scanning the medium and long wave frequencies but not heard a thing.’
  I relay the message I heard on the radio. I tell them that London has gone, and people should head to the Palmerston Forts. They start talking amongst themselves, before I finish speaking.
  ‘Ah, I see, right well, there we go - the British Government has a plan. Did they say which Fort precisely?’
  ‘No, just that. The
Micra
had it on the radio earlier. Didn’t the person who stole… er… who took it hear the message.’
  He starts looking at the men gathered around him.
  ‘Who brought the
Micra
? Nigel, was it you? No, must have been Malcolm then. His car was in the garage for a service. Malcolm, where are you?’
  Another man pushes through the crowd: thin build, glasses and floppy blond hair. He looks sheepish.