The Undead. The First Seven Days (104 page)

Howie pauses and looks down at his feet, then slowly over to the flatlands and the estate in the distance; watching as the shadows lengthen and twilight takes over.
  ‘Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it is completely wrong,’ Howie says eventually, still looking away from Sarah. ‘But the way I see it, it doesn’t matter what the motivation or reason is, as long as it gets done. As long as those things are put down and killed. But, I see your point… it’s okay for Chris and the others to have that violence but not your brother, is that it?’
  ‘Something like that,’ she replies, in a soft voice.
  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Howie shrugs. ‘It is what it is, they want to kill us and we have to stop them.’
  ‘I know.’
  ‘Clarence seems a nice bloke,’ Howie says, with a sudden smile.
  ‘Ha, yes he does,’ Sarah smiles back, glad of the break in tension.
  ‘Well, I’m gonna try and sleep, you sticking around up here?’ Howie says.
  ‘I’ll be about,’ Sarah replies, as Howie starts walking towards the Saxon. ‘And Howie,’ she quickly adds. ‘I know we weren’t the type of brother and sister that said it, but I do love you,’ she says.
  Howie smiles back, the darkness lifted from his face for a few seconds. ‘You too, Sis,’ he walks off towards the Saxon; smiling and nodding at the people he passes.
 

Clustering in and around the Saxon, they all try to rest and sleep. Although there are now hundreds of people at the top of the inner north wall, they take no chances and still keep one on the GPMG; Malcolm offering to take the first watch.
  Howie and Chris take the quiet interior of the Saxon, the rear doors closed, so they can have more peace. Howie beds down on a thick layer of army coats discarded in the warm weather. Chris on the cushioned bench seats, they make easy talk for a few seconds, before Chris starts snoring loudly. Leaving Howie alone to think about the words Sarah said to him, but as his mind tries to think, the rhythmic sounds from Chris get to work and, within seconds, he drifts off.

  ‘I’m going to test fire the cannon, Mr Howie,’ Dave says, opening a rear door and leaning in.
  ‘Okay mate,’ Howie answers, sleepily.
  As Dave walks over, he notices the two cannon crews still in their groups, running through the drills he showed them earlier.

They look at him eagerly as he approaches and he notices the first crew moves discreetly into position, waiting for the chance to do a live fire.
  Dave gets to the cannon and walks round, checking everything is in place; the powder bags, the wadding, the mounds of wrapped ammunition, the ramrods, the fuses and, finally, the holder of the flame standing a short distance away.
  ‘Good idea,’ Dave nods at the gas canister fitted with a welders flame that stands a few metres away; a man standing next to it, holding a petrol lighter.
  ‘We’ve got one on the other cannon too,’ the man replies proudly.

Dave nods and completes his inspection. He walks round to the back of the cannon and looks down the length and out to the flatlands.
  ‘We’ll probably get maximum impact if we aim for them as they come out of the deep ditch after the second embankment,’ Dave says. 'Let’s try it and see.’
  Dave has one final look round to see the first crew all stood in their allocated positions, ready and waiting to go.

He looks to the man with the lengths of fuse wire and nods once, before stepping away to observe. The man steps forward and pushes the fuse into the cannon hole, feeling for the resistance as the bottom of the wire hits the inside base of the cannon.
  ‘POWDER,’ the man shouts and steps back.

The next man picks up a powder bag and moves smartly over to the mouth of the cannon, pushing the bag inside.
  ‘RAMROD,’ he shouts, as the man with the long stick steps forward and beats the powder bag down to the bottom of the cannon.
  ‘WADDING,’ the ramrod man shouts and steps back as the next man pushes wadding into the mouth of the cannon.
  ‘RAMROD,’ he shouts and again the man with the stick steps up and pushes the wadding firmly down the cannon.
  ‘AMMUNITION,’ then a wrapped bundle of nuts, bolts, nails and screws is pushed in.

‘RAMROD,’ the man with the stick pushes it down.

He steps back and checks everyone is clear before shouting: ‘FUSE’.
  The gas canister knob is already turned and the welder’s torch with a soft yellow flame at the end. The flame holder lifts the gas canister and steps over to the fuse and once again checks everyone is standing well away. He presses the flame to the fuse and pauses for a second as the fuse takes light and starts burning down.
  ‘FIRE,’ he bellows and quickly steps back away from the expected recoil.

They all stand with baited breath and hands covering ears as a huge bang rips through the air. The cannon is shot backwards as a massive tongue of fire shoots out the end with a thick black cloud.

Dave is at the wall upwind and watching as the second bank is clearly peppered with metal fragments striking the top and firing far beyond. He turns back to the crews waiting and the many people turned to watch, he gives a simple thumbs up and a rare smile as they cheer loudly.
  ‘Good, make it ready and we’ll test the other one,’ Dave says and watches as they burst into action and the hose man steps forward like a ceremonial guard to sluice any burning fragments from the inside of the cannon.
  At the next cannon, the first crew standby and watch with the experienced eye of expert cannon firers and the second crew position themselves and wait for Dave. Once again he checks everything is in place before nodding once and stepping away.
  The second crew prove just as good as the first and move quickly, shouting for the next man as they each complete their duty.

The holder of the flame steps forward and lights the fuse, shouting ‘FIRE’ as he quickly moves away.
  Once again the cannon roars to life and flies backwards as a long orange flame comes out of the mouth followed within a split second by thick black smoke.

Dave is at the wall watching as the spinning metal fragments fly over the bank and reach a good distance into the flatlands.
  ‘Good, too high though,’ Dave says and moves over to remove a wedge used to raise the mouth of the cannon. ‘That will be perfect, make it ready.’ He adds, before moving off back to the Saxon amidst the cheering and applauding again.
  He walks round the Saxon, checking on each of his men. Howie and Chris lead them but Dave accepts them as his to be protected and watched.

Although his different mind doesn’t allow for the same feeling of impending doom the others have, he does feel a very sense of trepidation.

Dave has worked alone on hundreds of missions and has been outnumbered many times before. But his ability to plan, fight and move quickly meant he was rarely in danger in the same way that others may perceive it. In order to have a fear of death, one must have a sense of life and Dave simply does not tick that way. Complete the task in front of you while planning for the next one. Dave had worked alongside regular troops before, but his status always kept him aloof and away. But no matter how different he may be, this week has affected him. These men have become familiar to him, their voices, their jokes and the way they fight. Blowers and Cookey always side by side joking but when they fight they do so with complete ferocity, always watching each other and covering the gaps. Tucker, a big lad and not as fit as the others but he uses his bulk and size and overcomes that fear to drive on. Nick, a witty man with a good head for computers and electrical things and again he fights with his heart, never holding back and pushing on with savage intent. Curtis, he is competent. Which may seem a lowly compliment but a competent man is worth his weight in gold. Knowing where to be at the right time and never complaining, a good driver too. Then there’s Jamie. Quiet like Dave but still different - he is highly capable and willing to learn, and, importantly, he is able to work alone, but not for his own ends.
  Dave looks at each of them as he passes and thinks of McKinney, and how Howie reacted when he knew Dave was going to finish him. That was the deepest feeling Dave had ever felt, not for the loss of McKinney but for the anger and betrayal he thought Howie must be holding towards him. Howie is a natural leader and has a rare ability to show error and mistakes but still command respect. Whatever may come from this battle, Dave knows one thing. Men like Howie must survive, they know right from wrong. They know what must be done and then they work out how to do it. Men like these that make other men fight when otherwise they would be quivering in a corner and pissing themselves with fear.
  Dave positions himself at the back of the Saxon, quietly finding a spot that means anyone trying to enter the vehicle from the back must first go past him.
  The bodyguard.
  The watchman.

The night closes in, and, for the first time in a week, Howie does not hear the howling of the undead voices lifting to roar in unison. He sleeps deeply, exhausted both in mind and body. They all sleep.
  All through the camp there is quiet, men and woman strolling around chatting in muted tones. Couples clasping each other tightly, knowing it might be the last time. Families huddle together and whisper words of love and life. Men keep their weapons close and women hold their children, for tonight may be the last night of life. Past mistakes are forgotten and petty squabbles are laid aside, as they acknowledge the lives they have led and prepare for what may come.

I wake up quickly, bathed in sweat and I find myself sat bolt upright, breathing hard. Looking over I see that Chris has already left. I know I was dreaming, but the images have faded instantly. I feel hot, still tired and dirty, but above all else, I need the toilet.

I clamber out of the vehicle to find the others half asleep, drinking from mugs of hot coffee being handed around by Tucker and his new team of catering corps volunteers.
  ‘Morning, Mr Howie, fresh coffee for you,’ Tucker approaches me, with a steaming mug.
  ‘Not now mate, gotta go,’ the cramping in my stomach signifies an urgent action is required.

I run off in just my socks, no time to go back for my boots left in the back of the vehicle. I start jogging down the vehicle ramp, desperately trying to remember where the closest toilet is. The jogging motion just makes it worse though and I can feel a pressing sensation pushing inside my stomach.
  ‘Too much bloody coffee,’ I mutter as I speed up.

People pass by me, trying to stop and talk. I wave them off apologetically and keep going. There’s no way I’m going to shit myself in front of all these people. This might be the last day of humanity but I’m not going out with Chris, Blowers and Cookey and the rest of them all ripping the piss out of me.
  The visitors centre! That must have toilets, it’s across the camp, but there’s no alternative. There must be some closer ones but I can’t take the chance to stop and ask now. I run down the wide central path, veering round children and people stepping out to chat.
  ‘Fuck it, fuck it,’ I mutter under my breath as I run faster.

I can feel my face going red and the cramping sensation is bloody awful. I want to stop and drop my trousers here, but that might not be a good thing. The hero of Fort Spitbank leaving a big steaming poo on the floor. No that wouldn’t go down very well.
  There it is, I can see it. There’s lights on inside, making it glow in the still darkness of the night. I glance up quickly to see the sky is just starting to lift. I reach the door and see a queue of people stood holding toilet rolls in the wide reception area.
  After killing many zombies, using bad language and now preparing for an invasion of the undead army I commit the worst British crime of all. I jump the queue. There’s no other choice, if I don’t get to a toilet now I will void my pants.
  ‘Sorry, I’m really sorry,’ I yell out, as I run round the quiet men and women stood chatting. I see the door with the stick figure of a man on the front and burst through. Inside, the cubicles are all closed with more people waiting patiently outside each one.
  I glance at the urinals, thinking for a split second of sitting on one of them instead.

I grab my stomach as the cramping sensation doubles from the urgent motion of the running. A door opens in front of me and a man steps out. I stare pleadingly at the man waiting to go in. Something in my eyes; he stares back with a look of absolute forgiveness on his face.
  ‘Do you want to go next?’ He asks politely, as I close the door in his face.
  ‘Sorry mate,’ I say through gritted teeth, as I scrabble at my belt, cursing the stupid buckles.
  ‘That’s okay, when you’ve got to go…’ the man outside says, his speech leaves it open for me to finish, but I’m otherwise occupied, fighting the hardest battle yet with my trousers.

Finally, I yank them down and pull my underpants down to my ankles and sit down.
  My arse hits cold plastic and I jump instantly back up, as I realise I’ve sat on the closed toilet seat.

‘Fucking stupid toilet seat,’ I roar out, wrenching the blasted thing up to sit back down. My bowels explode with wretched venom as the bomb doors unleash a devastating payload on the poor porcelain toilet bowl beneath me.
  ‘Oh, my fucking god…’ I can’t help the words coming out. My arse sputtering like a Spitfire machinegun rattling fire at the enemy. The feeling of relief is immense.
  ‘Err, are you all right in there,’ the same man asks, with polite concern, at the long, whimpering sounds coming from me.
  ‘Yep, fine,’ I reply with a casual politeness, the spattering noise almost drowning my voice out.