The Undead. The First Seven Days

Copyright © R. R. Haywood 2012

R. R. Haywood asserts his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
 

All Rights reserved.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events, unless those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or undead), is purely coincidental.

The Undead: One to Seven, have previously been published as a seven book series.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Design, Cover and Illustration by Eddyart.

My name is Howie. I was named after my father Howard, but it became too confusing to have two Howard’s, so I became Howie.

I am twenty-seven years old and I work as a night manager in a supermarket.

The following is an account of what happened during the worst seven days that the Earth has ever seen.

DAY ONE

DAY TWO

DAY THREE

DAY FOUR

DAY FIVE

DAY SIX

DAY SEVEN

At first it was just a news story, a mad man somewhere had run amok in a busy European city centre on a Friday night, attacking people and biting into them. It only caught the attention of news channels because there was mobile phone footage showing the attacks. But, within hours, the television channels were all taken over by news bulletins and special reports; conflicting stories of widespread outbreaks of violence, with random people being attacked by crazed savages who were lunging and biting at them. Groups of maniacs were seen dragging people to the floor and eating them.

The hazy video had famous landmarks in the background and showed people shouting and running in all directions, then a police officer was shown standing next to a patrol car with blue and red lights flashing. He fired his pistol at something out of view and then he was engulfed by bodies. The person holding the phone screamed, as they ran away.
  It all happened within hours and it spread so fast across Europe to places that even
I
had heard of.
  Cities and towns were quickly overcome with violent attacks and some news reports suggested that the attackers were biting and tearing at the flesh, then running off to find another victim. Images flashed across the screen of those victims with horrific injuries and, pretty soon, all censorship was gone and they were showing brutal and violent scenes.
  The police seemed unable to contain the violent attacks and some countries were bringing troops in to try and restore order.
  The news anchors were calm at first, but, as the night progressed, they became increasingly concerned and it wasn’t long before they ran out of clichéd comments.

News channels are brilliant at finding experts to give live testimony as events unfold, but as all of this  happened so fast, there were no experts. This wasn’t terrorism, a plane crash or a natural disaster. I  imagined that the Producers would be frantically going through their lists of experts, trying to work out who to call, but the story developed too quickly and, within hours, it was in Central Europe.

At first, the
so-called
experts talked about civil disorder, then riots and this quickly progressed to revolution and an attempt to overthrow the governments.
  As more and more reports came in they started using words like pathogens, microbes and airborne organisms and the news anchors tried desperately to make sense of a continent exploding in widespread violence.

To begin with, I watched the start of the events feeling detached and safe, but as it spread and came closer, I felt more and more uneasy and then downright scared.

It’s late at night and most of the people I know will be in bed, but I want to share this with someone.

I try to send a text, but my phone is indicating that there is no network coverage, which is strange as the signal is normally excellent. I keep trying, but there is just an empty signal bar.
  As I become more freaked out, I pick up my landline and dial my parents’ number but it’s engaged.  They might be trying to call me, so I hang up.

After a few minutes of waiting, I try again.

Still engaged.
  I try my sister in London… engaged.

I ring my friends’ number’s… all engaged.

Every number that I call comes back with the engaged tone.
  I realise that the voicemail hasn’t kicked in for any of them. So, in desperation I call 999.
Engaged.

No mobile and no landline.

I live in the top half of a semi-detached house; only a few minutes’ walk from the small town centre. The bottom half of the building is occupied by a young couple.

I look out of my lounge window; it’s a warm summer evening and the window is open. The outside world looks like it always does: quiet and peaceful.
    I go back to the television and keep trying telephone numbers I know, and, after a few minutes, I hear footsteps outside in the street - fast footsteps.  I look out to a normal suburban road with houses on both sides and orange coloured streetlights.
  As I look down the road, I can see a really fat man trying to run.

As he comes into view, I see him looking back.
 He is wearing a suit, his tie is pulled down and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. He is trying to run and clearly struggling for breath and… he keeps looking over his shoulder.
  I crane my head to try and see what he is looking at and, within a few seconds, another man comes into view - it looks like he is chasing the fat man.
   The fat man is trying his best, but the other man is gaining ground. As they get closer, I start to see that something isn’t right with the second man. His isn’t a normal way of running; there is no cohesion in his movements and none of the fluidity that you normally see when someone runs. Even when people who don’t normally run go faster they are generally co-ordinated, but this man isn’t - he is jerky and half stumbling, but still going fast.
  The panic starts to rise in me and I look back at the footage running on the television: grainy shots of people trying to escape something, then a hazy image of a stumbling, demented man comes into view. He is grabbing at a victim, sinking his teeth into his face, and then he drags him to the floor in a frenzied attack. More crazed people are joining in and then they all suddenly stop and burst away, going in different directions; like a choreographed act.

My head slowly moves back from the television to the window. I have a deep sense of dread and a sickening feeling grows in my stomach.
  I look out and see that the fat man is almost caught; the other man is so close to him.

I can now see more people running towards the fat man.
 It looks like the fat man can tell he is almost done for and he spins around and tries to lash out. He screams and flails with his arms, but the other man is upon him; throwing himself forward and ignoring the blows from the fat man’s arms. The
thing
is biting and lunging his mouth at the fat man who is running backwards, frantically trying to push the creature off.
  Then he trips and goes down and
it
is on him, biting at his face… the others have made ground and are there too.

I think they are going to pull the attacker off, but as they get closer they dive forward onto the fat man and then it’s all just a mess of bodies writhing on the floor. Soon, the fat man’s screams end.
  Lights come on and another man comes running out of his house, dressed just in boxer shorts. He runs towards the bodies on the ground whilst shouting loudly and holding some kind of stick. He uses the stick to beat and hit them, but they reach up and attack him. In defence, he swipes out, hitting them and getting good blows in. I watch as they get knocked to the ground… but they get back up.
  A normal person can’t get hit like that and get back up.

The man in boxer shorts is shouting but I can’t hear exactly what he is saying, but I do hear the word “Police”.

He can’t fight them off and they pull him down, as the same frenzied biting begins.

A woman, who looks about thirty, comes out of the same house. She wears an old style,
grandmotherly
type of dressing gown, which looks out-of-place on her.
  She stands stunned for a second then gives a piercing scream, which seems to give them a fresh burst. She doesn’t stand a chance as they leap from the man on the floor onto her; biting into her face and neck. She stays on her feet, staggering about with them on her, then she is engulfed and they all go down.
  More lights are coming on now. I am mesmerised and can’t move; my window is a television screen to some weirdly, surreal movie.
  More people come out of their houses and rush into the melee and the things lose no time
in attacking them by frantically gouging and biting.
  These people have just been woken up by the screaming and shouting; they are panicked and sleepy and they don’t stand a chance.
  In a house further down, the lights are coming on and then the blue front door opens. This house is just past where the fat man is lying on his back in a pool of blood, his legs spread and his arms out to the sides.
  An old man slowly comes out of the house and looks up at the bedlam taking place.

Creeping forward, he takes a few steps and looks down at the fat man. Maybe he is talking to the fat man… asking him if he is all right? He extends an arm and touches the fat man on the shoulder but gets nothing in return.

A loud scream erupts from the carnage taking place up the road and the old man turns his head and looks; his arm still extended down to the fat man. The fat man reaches up and grabs the old man by his pyjama front, pulling him down and, as the fat man does what is possibly his first sit up in at least twenty years, he forces his mouth straight into the old man’s face, and sinks his teeth in.
  The old man tries to pull back, but he is gripped and cannot get backwards. The fat man pulls him down and leans over the old man; biting and thrashing at his neck. Even from this distance, I can see a burst of red as the jugular is opened and the fat man is sprayed by the hot blood.  The old man’s arms move slower and then drop down to his sides.

I look further up the road and realise that the man in the boxer shorts is now standing up; his ravaged face still pouring blood down his chest. He shuffles forward, slowly at first, and then moves faster. Stumbling and gaining pace, he staggers up the street and then he stops.
  He turns slowly, until he is facing my direction, and his head lifts. The light and distance mean I can’t see clearly, but I can make out that his face is a mess of red, hanging flesh.
   I don’t know if he can see me but I panic and drop down beneath the windowsill; my lights are off - with just the light from the television illuminating the room.
  Utter panic grips me as I slowly rise up and peek out; the net curtains giving me some kind of shield.