The Undead Day Twenty (3 page)

Instead, he looks at the window and the new dawn bringing a new day. He cocks his head at the sounds of the lads downstairs and smiles at the play obviously underway. Might as well stay up now. Get a brew on and sort some kit out. The GPMG needs a clean. His rifle could probably do with a clean too, and his pistol. Yep, plenty to do. Get a brew, get some work done.

‘Clarence, are you okay?’ Reginald asks, staring over from his bedroll.

‘Hmm?’ Clarence says, struggling to get his foot into his trouser leg. ‘Yeah, why?’

‘Those are my trousers.’

*

Howie heard something once that people in modern life were more stressed than people were during the blitz in London during the war. That stuck in his mind. There was a real daily risk that a German plane was going to drop a bomb on your head. Every day they had to dig through piles of rubble trying to rescue those alive or gather enough body parts together for the funeral.

He dismissed it at the time as bollocks. It was just tripe. Some dick had plucked something from the air that
sounded
good and it was repeated enough times by mainstream media to be believed.

For a start, how did they know what the stress levels were like during the blitz in London? Did someone invent a time machine and go back with a load of those high-vis tabard laminated badge-wearing teenagers to stand in High streets and ask questions?

Hi, we’re doing a survey on stress. Do you have a few minutes?

Not right now. My house just got bombed by the Luftwaffe.

But you can win a prize!

So how did they know? Did they go and ask a bunch of old people in care homes?
Hi, are you more stressed now than you were during the war?

Thing is, if someone caught him at the wrong time in a normal working day and asked him that question he would have said yes, right now he is more stressed than at any other point ever but only because the emotion of the situation was at the forefront of his mind.

So some boffin said, apparently, that people were more stressed in modern life than during the blitz and you know what? Right now, on the morning of the twentieth day since everyone started eating each other, he does actually agree with them.

His washing machine broke a few months ago. He needed a new one. He went online and bought a new one. It was super easy and a marvel of the modern world. The day of delivery, he popped out to get something and missed the delivery attempt. Thereafter, it became a living hell of trying to communicate with a faceless corporation whose front line existed in the way of poorly trained low-paid advisors. He was put on hold and transferred so many times he lost track. He had to explain the issue over and again. He had to
pass security
again and again. It took a whole day to resolve and by the end of it, he felt exhausted, distracted, drained and bordering on a psychotic episode that manifested in a fantasy of finding the owner of the company and punching them in the nose.

He does not have that now. Those days are gone. Everything became too big. They became machines and lost the humanity of existence. They
centralised
to make things cheaper and in so doing, they fucked themselves over and lost the spark of life.

So yeah, right now, he gets it. They are at constant risk of death. They are under threat. They have seen their mates killed. They have killed their mates. They have seen and given more death than anyone has a right to see or give. They have cried, wept and felt so forlorn, so wretched that they wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep the eternal sleep of the deceased. They demanded justice from God for the awfulness of what was happening. Then they realised God is a dick so they went out and spanked the baddies themselves.

They laughed too. Howie has laughed more now in the last twenty days than he did in the last ten years of his life before this happened.

He is in a house that is not his. He does not know who built this house, who owned it, who lived here or anything other than it is the last house on the bay opposite a fort that now stands on an island. He is staring out the window to that fort right now. He can see it. He can feel the heat of the day on his skin. He can smell the salt of the sea. There is a double bed behind him with a woman snoring gently upon the sheets. Downstairs he can hear laughter and play being given.

They have a horse. They have a dog. They have a Dave and a Clarence. They have a Nick who can fix shit. They have a Mo who can break into shit. They have a Roy who can fix people, sort of, kind of. They have a Paula and a Marcy, a Charlie, a Blinky and a Saxon that is big and mighty and wants nothing more than to go with them and spank the baddies. They now have a Reginald who is smarter than they are and will fuck ‘em over for the sheer pleasure of winning and proving his intellect is better than theirs. They have ego and pride. They are humans flawed beyond comprehension. An Autistic ex-Special Forces soldier that was not actually Special Forces but something much more sinister and deadly. He doesn’t think the SAS blow cows up for a start and make things go bang so much they can be seen from space. Marcy is vain as fuck. Paula is a control freak. Roy is just messed up. Mo should really be in prison. Blowers and Cookey take the piss out of everything. Seriously, if God actually walked into this house right now and said
hey mortals, I am God, I am powerful, and you are puny.
Those two would call him a dick and make totally inappropriate gay jokes. God could smite them both to death and they’d go all smited and in pain but still taking the piss.

What the fuck? Howie shakes his head at the tangents of thought popping up. Is there a word for that? He bets Reginald knows. He’ll ask him later. For now though he shall saunter across this room, ease himself down on this bed and bite into the bare arse he can see before him. Actually, that might be in bad taste. Darren bit her arse so maybe Howie biting her arse isn’t such a good idea. Okay, no bum biting. He really wants to bite though. Not hard like to actually hurt or anything, but you know that urge you get? Just to nibble a bit and make gnawing noises? He has that now.

Hmmm. Not the arse then. He could go lower for some thigh. Or higher for some back or shoulder. Maybe some neck? An arm?

‘Go back to sleep,’ she murmurs all murmuring and sleepy like.

‘I’m a zombie,’ he tells her. Which also is perhaps a stupid thing to say, seeing as she was also a zombie, which came about from being bitten on the arse by Darren.

‘Twat.’

She appears not to have taken offence and instead has called him a twat in that sleepy murmuring way. He bites down into her neck which makes her squeal, scrunch up, roll over, laugh and beat him off all at the same time.

‘I’m a zombie…’

‘Get off!’ she squeals again and giggles at his mouth descending once more to her neck.

‘Is this in bad taste?’ he asks her, pulling back a few inches.

‘What?’ she asks, still giggling and blinking her eyes open.

‘Being a zombie.’

‘Um…nah,’ she says, smiling a flash of white teeth.

‘Cool…you okay?’

‘Mmmm,’ she says, stretching all languid and just so fucking sexy it makes him stare down and want this second to become infinite. ‘Is it early? I bet it’s early. Go back to sleep…’

‘But…’

‘If it’s twat o’clock I…’ she trails off, stretching to look at the window and the sky that snitches on Howie by being all dawn-like with purples and blues and pinks. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she groans then reaches out to pull him down to squash his face into her boobs then commences a rather hard patting stroking like motion on his face. ‘Go back to sleep,’ she pats / strokes while he suffers death by boobs. ‘Actually sod off, it’s too hot,’ she rolls away to lie face down and grooves into the bed with a long sigh of more sleepy murmuring.

‘Fancy a coffee?’

‘In bed?’ she asks, her voice muffled from the pillow.

‘I’ll bring it up.’

‘Awesome,’ she flaps a hand in his direction.

He slides off the bed and pulls his trousers on, grabs his clothes, kit, bag, weapons and with his arms full of gear he heads down to the bathroom.

His
ablutions
, as Dave calls them pass without incident. Other than some weirdo staring at him from the mirror. Howie doesn’t like the look of him so he avoids eye-contact in case he mistakes it as an invite to commence conversation. Instead, he urinates, brushes his teeth and showers under freezing cold water that feels divine after such a hot steamy night. Not steamy as in sex-steamy. Steamy as in just bloody hot and sweaty.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters under his breath standing nudey in the bathroom and realising he has no clean pants or socks. He puts yesterdays on with a grimace then curses again when he realises he’s down to his last clean top too.

He comes out to nod at Paula emerging from her room.

‘Morning, Mr Howie.’

‘Morning, Miss Paula.’

The leaders of the living army. The fearless warriors of heart and sinew that hold their band of fighters together with grit in their eye and a snarl on their lips.

‘Run out of pants and socks,’ Howie says.

‘Okay,’ Paula says.

The leaders nod at each other as the door opposite opens to reveal a man mountain silhouetted by the light of the window behind him. A Viking from days of old. A Berserker of Biblical strength.

‘I’m out of boxers,’ Clarence says.

‘Okay,’ Paula says, trying not to think of seeing Clarence in his boxers a few minutes ago.

‘And socks,’ Clarence adds, remembering her asking him if he needed socks a few minutes ago and trying not to think of her in underwear.

‘Okay,’ Paula says.

‘HAIRBANDS,’ Marcy bellows, sleepy, languid and now not murmuring but shouting from the bedroom.

‘OKAY,’ Paula calls up.

‘Arrows,’ Roy calls out, sleepy, languid and stretching in bed.

‘Okay,’ Paula says.

‘Knives,’ Dave calls out from outside the front door, on watch but listening as ever to the motion of every living thing near him.

‘Okay,’ Paula calls down.

‘My last clean top,’ Howie says, plucking his tight black wicking top away from his chest as though Paula wouldn’t know this was the top he was referring to.

‘Okay,’ Paula says.

‘Mine too,’ Clarence says, also plucking his top out from his body.

‘Think I’m on my last one,’ Roy calls out.

‘How strange,’ Howie says.

‘Not really,’ Paula says. ‘We all got the same amount three days ago…which was three…three days ago…’

‘HAIRBANDS…’

‘Heard you,’ Paula calls back.

‘WHERE’S MY COFFEE?’

‘YOU ASKING ME?’ Paula shouts.

‘NO. HOWIE. HE SAID HE WOULD BRING ME COFFEE.’

‘Okay,’ Paula says. ‘Shopping day then.’

‘Oh fuck,’ Howie says.

‘Bugger,’ Clarence says.

‘Arse,’ Roy mutters, rolling over.

‘YAY,’ Marcy shouts.

‘How the fuck?’ Howie asks, shaking his head in the direction of his room. ‘She’s got the hearing of a bat…’ he mutters under his breath.

‘BATWOMAN.’

‘Coffee,’ Howie says.

‘Coffee,’ Clarence says.

‘Okay,’ Paula says.

‘Arse,’ Roy mutters.

‘I’M A BATWOMAN…’

The three fearless leaders traipse down the stairs as Batwoman groans in irritation at needing a wee. They stop at the door to the barracks, also known as the lounge, and stare in to see three young men and two young women sat on their arses in underwear, soaking wet and giggling with red cheeks.

‘Sir, morning Mr Howie, Sir. Miss Paula, Sir…and er…Clarence, Sir,’ Blinky blurts, launching to her feet to snap a salute.

‘Right,’ Howie says slowly, grinning at the sight.

‘Dave,’ Cookey starts to say then stops due to the giggles cutting him off. He composes himself, draws breath and tries again. ‘Dave saved me…’

The three fearless leaders do an eyes right order to the front door and the small man outside staring in as devoid of expression as ever but with just the merest hint of reproach in his eyes,
as if I would.

‘He did!’ Cookey exclaims.

‘Coffee, Mr Howie?’ Paula asks.

‘Aye, coffee, Miss Paula, Sir,’ Howie says, adding an
as you were
nod at the barracks.

The three launch the attack into the kitchen. Clarence goes for the big pan, pouring water ready for heating. Howie makes fire, manly and heroically striking the match that flames to ignite the gas pumped from the jets. Paula manhandles the mugs, forcing order from chaos.

Water pouring. Fire igniting. Cups clattering. Feet thunder on the ceiling above their heads as Batwoman decides that having a wee and getting ready for the shopping day are actually far more enticing than being served coffee in bed. More floorboards creak. A door opens.

‘Fuck it,’ Nick’s voice floating down as he comes out of his room to spot Marcy securing the bathroom ahead of him. Feet on the stairs, thudding fast and fluid as Nick runs down to stop with a bemused look into the lounge.