The Undead. The First Seven Days (16 page)

At the clothes section, I drop my bag down and start looking about. Most of the clothing is cheap and brightly coloured.
Cheap and not cheerful
, as the clothing manager calls it; out of earshot from the higher ups, of course.
  ‘Take what you need, Dave. Whatever you want… I can sign for it.’
  There are cargo-style trousers with the side pockets, but none in black. Only lighter colours and some funky camouflage designs.
  ‘I’ve been using dark clothes so far, trying to keep hidden in the shadows. What do you reckon, Dave? About right?’
  ‘Yes, camouflage is the art of concealing personnel or equipment from an enemy by making them appear to be part of the natural surroundings.’
  I stop and stare at him. That was the biggest speech I have ever heard him give, and he said it parrot fashion; reeling it off from memory. I go back to casually looking at the trousers.
  ‘So, were you in the army, Dave?’
  ‘Yes.’
  He has already chosen black jeans and a very dark green top. He takes these and walks to the changing room, closing the door behind him.

The conversation is over.
  I choose the same jeans as Dave had selected, and start to get changed. My legs are soaked from the blood that has seeped through.
  ‘I’m going to get some wipes to clean my legs.’
  No response.
  I head into the health and beauty section and find the same wipes that Dave used. I clean my legs thoroughly and then put the new jeans on. I put several packs of the wipes into my bag. My trainers are ruined, and I head back to the clothes section and find a pair of plain, sturdy, black boots. The explorer bag is quickly filling up.
  Dave comes out, dressed in the dark clothing. He looks awkward out of the
Tesco
uniform. He selects a leather belt from a stand and hands it to me, before getting another and threading it through his belt loops. I do the same and put the belt on.
  Dave then tucks his top into his jeans, but I don’t bother.
  ‘I need a new bag, mate.’
  I indicate the explorer bag, and he nods, before setting off to the sports aisle. I follow him and watch as he takes various bags off the shelf and checks them through. He settles on a
Berghaus
medium-sized rucksack with side pockets and a tight, elastic mesh at the front. Both have chest and waist straps. He hands me a dark blue one, and he chooses dark green. I transfer my stuff to the new bag.
  I watch as he puts the knives into the mesh pocket, blade first. He tests the elasticity and seems satisfied. Leaving the large, orange-handled one in the mesh, he draws the straight bladed knife back out and carries it in his hand.
  ‘Ready, mate?’
  He shakes his head: ‘Food and fluids.’
  And he’s off again.

I follow behind as he selects various items in the store: high-energy protein bars; glucose drinks; bottles of water and First Aid kits. Each time he hands me some first and then puts the same in his own bag.

Eventually, the bags are full with supplies
- food and fluids
as he called them. He seems ready to go, then he stops and looks at me.
  ‘We should eat now.’
  Now he’s off into the aisles, taking cooked chicken from the meat section, then packets of microwavable rice and, finally, tinned vegetables.
  I’m following behind him, taking the same things. I want to get going, but he seems to know what he’s doing, and I did promise earlier that I would plan and prepare better. Perhaps he is right. There is no way of telling when the next meal will come, and we should eat now.
  We go through to the staff canteen area and Dave takes plates and cutlery from the cupboards. He empties the contents of the packets onto a plate and starts digging in.
  ‘We could heat them up in the microwave. There’s still power.’
  He shrugs and carries on.

A short while later, we are outside in the rear compound, walking towards the home delivery vans: bags on our backs, axe in my hand and Dave is holding the knife down by his side.

We’re both dressed in black and I feel a bit self-conscious, imagining a rock soundtrack playing out.

Yeah, very cool: two supermarket workers getting away in a
Tesco
home delivery van – one of them is some kind of highly trained killer with possible Autism.

We get into the van and prop both of the bags onto the middle seat.
  I check the fuel gauge; glad of the company policy to always return the vehicle full.

We move off towards the double gates and they open on a sensor from the inside - we have to pause for a few seconds to let them swing out.
  It’s still dark, but the sun will be up before long. I pull out of the gates and start crossing the car park towards the main road. Dave remains silent, his hands together in his lap, as he stares forward.
  ‘So… were you in the army for long?’
  ‘Fourteen years.’
  ‘Quite a while then. Did you go overseas much?’
  ‘I’m not allowed to say.’
  ‘Oh, right, of course. What part of the army were you in?’
  ‘I’m not allowed to say.’
  Bloody hell! It feels rude to keep asking questions. He is obviously a private man, but the silence is uncomfortable, and I feel the need to fill it.
  ‘I lived in the town too, but those
things
tried to get in my house, so I had to leave. My parents live the other side of Littleton. I went there on Saturday morning, but they had gone. They left me a note saying they were coming to look for me, so I came back, but I can’t find them. The town is overrun, and I almost got caught a few times.’
  Silence.
  “My sister lives in London. She called my parents and said that she was locked into her flat. That’s where I’m going, to try and find her. I heard on a radio broadcast that survivors should head to those Victorian Forts on the coast. I’ve already met some other people and told them. That’s where I thought we would go, to the Forts.’
  Silence again, and this time I leave it unfilled.

On the motorway, I have to slow down to pass the wreck from Saturday morning. The woman’s body is still there and the male undead corpse is still half out of the upturned car.
  Dave looks at the wreckage as we go through.
  ‘I saw that happen. I was going to my parents, and it flipped over right in front of me. The woman was still alive, but she died while I was helping her.’
  Dave looks at me and nods, doesn’t say anything and then looks ahead again.

As daylight rises, we pass the shop where I met the Indian lady and then the estate survivors. The cars are all gone and the shop looks deserted.
  I slow down to look through the windows. The shelves all look empty. I guess those people took everything and got away - I hope they made it.
  I drive into the estate and stop outside the house. This time I take the keys with me and lock the van up, feeling somewhat safer now that there are two of us.
  Dave gets out and follows me to the front door.
  My dad’s car is still missing, and I get a horrible sinking feeling that they haven’t been back.
  In the dining room, the note is where I left it. No signs of anyone being in the house since I left.

Dave disappears off into the house and comes back after a few minutes.
  ‘All clear, Mr Howie.’
  ‘Yeah… thanks, Dave.’
  I feel sadness wave over me. They must be gone. Their note said they would come back here after checking at my place. Something has happened.
  I think of my parents being undead. An awful, slow, painful death - and then they become
them
.
  They might have been in that horde that chased me into the club during the night, or even been dispatched by Dave in the supermarket.
  The thought sickens me and I sit down at the dining table. My parents are gone – dead - or maybe worse. If they indeed were undead, would they attack me if they saw me?
  ‘Dave, did any of the other staff from work turn into those things?’
  ‘Yes.’
  ‘Did they try and come for you?’
  ‘Yes.’
  ‘Did they show any signs that they recognised you?’
  ‘No.’
  That’s it then. My parents would go for me.

There is a deep pain inside me, and it won’t go away. Memories from childhood flood into my mind. I think of special times that we shared: Christmas and the effort that my parents made when it was our birthdays.

The retirement party we had for my dad who then went back to work a few weeks later. He worked all his life, and, even in retirement - when he should have been relaxing - he wanted to contribute.
  The hints they kept dropping me and my sister about marriage and babies; wanting to be grandparents.
  The pain is too much.

They have gone, been taken away by those evil things. They tried to come and rescue me, knowing they were going into danger, knowing the risks, but they still tried. They are selfless and valiant people. The pain crushes my heart, but I can’t break down here. This isn’t the time. They were good people, decent loving and nice. The undead have taken them from me. Even if I find my sister... no,
when
I find my sister, I will have to tell her that they are gone.

There is a vase of flowers on the table, selected and carefully arranged by my mother; showing pride in her home - the home they worked hard for.

They are gone, and the undead have taken them.

A rage starts to build in me. I think of Marcus and his fucked up club. How dare he breathe the same air as my family. He isn’t worthy of anything. Not life, not love.

All around me are the things that they cherished: photos of my sister and I adorn the walls; the ceramic pot I made in school and gave to them as a present is proudly displayed on a shelf - my mother even kept my old clothes in the loft. She was too nice to throw them out.

The rage is building, and the hunger for revenge is consuming me. They are gone. The undead have taken them - taken them away from me.

The cold, hard fury cannot be ignored. This cannot be left. This must be done now.

I go into the kitchen and pull out the knife drawer, slamming it onto the kitchen top. I look up and see a row of knives stuck on a magnetic strip on the wall. They were a retirement gift from my Dad’s place of work: moulded high-tensile stainless steel; bevelled grips with small, black rubber inserts. One of them is a huge cleaver. We joked about Mum using it on Dad if she got fed up with him being at home.
  The thought of my parents drives me on, and I take the cleaver and head back out to the van with my axe. Staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, I get into the drivers seat and start the engine; the cleaver on the middle seat.
  Dave gets in without a word. He has two more knives from the same set on the wall, and both of them are long and straight bladed.
  We stare at each other, then I face ahead and pull away, heading out of the estate and back onto the main road.

One of those fucking things took my parents. I don’t know which one, but I’ll find it. There will be a sign, some kind of aura, an evil presence. Somehow I will find the one that took them, and I will hurt it.
I will kill it. I will kill all of them. I will purge that town and raze it to the fucking ground.
  ‘Where now?” Dave asks.
  ‘Boroughfare.’
  ‘Okay.’

Within minutes, we are back on the motorway; the engine screaming loudly as I ram the gas pedal down as far as it will go. The road is still clear, and I push the van hard. I barely slow down as we fly onto the junction, the main road, the roundabout and then onto the High Street.

The horde is in that town.

The pain is consuming me, and the need for revenge blots out all thought or reason. There is no other way.

I want to see them suffer, burn, be ripped apart and die horrible, painful, second deaths.

I don’t know if they feel pain, but I hope they do. I think of all the bad things I have seen: news reports of families torn apart by violence; offenders getting away free because of a weak legal system - not able to exact revenge because the authorities say that vigilantism is wrong.

But it isn’t wrong. It can never be wrong.
They
hurt my family. They can’t be arrested or tried in a court. Nobody will come along now and say nice things to calm my rage. Now there is punishment, and I will deliver it, and, if I can’t, then I will die trying.

I stop the van just before the precinct.

The metal barrier is in the distance and I can see the massed, undead beyond it. I press the horn down and keep it held, and the long wail echoes off the buildings. The undead start toward me. It’s daylight again, and they are slow now, shuffling along, barely at walking pace. I want them now. I want them to be here so I can hurt them, but I wait, and I push my anger through that horn; my fist pressing into the middle of the steering wheel. I start to punch it. One fist after the other; rhythmic and constant.

Come on, come to me… come and bite me. I am here, and you can have me. I’m all yours. You took my parents - so take me, and let me join them.