The Undead. The First Seven Days (6 page)

I lower my hands from my head; resolute, changed and hardened. I have killed to survive and I will do it again - if I have to.
  I admit there was a part of me that enjoyed the first kill with the hammer. No, not enjoyed, that isn’t right, something else. Something primeval. An instinct buried and softened by modern society; this sickens me but, at the same time, it provides comfort and I walk away without looking back.

After half an hour I am still on the motorway, the fields and trees off to both sides slowly giving way as we pass a village.
  I haven’t seen or heard anyone, the adrenalin has fully worn off and I feel totally and utterly drained.
  At walking pace it will take me ages to reach my parents house. There is nothing on the motorway that I can use, I should go into the village and find a vehicle.
  I can’t see a junction anywhere or a turn off, I’m sure that the next junction is miles up the road, near my parent’s village.
  I walk over to the side of the road and clamber over the crash barrier, then down a ditch and across into a field. There is a barbed wire fence in a bad state of repair; it is held in place by wooden posts. A few kicks at one of the posts brings it down, the wire sagging lower, and I can step over safely.
  I walk across the field and the uneven ground is hard, after the smooth surface of the motorway. The field looks to be pasture; I think that’s what they call it… the type of land that animals graze on. I realise that I have no idea what different types of land there are, or what different crops look like, or even if they can be eaten or not. I work in a supermarket, selling produce all day. We get training on certain things so that we can sound convincing to the customer and increase sales, but I can’t remember anything useful.

The field borders a lane, which I follow into the village. The first few houses are detached and large, but gradually they get closer together, until a pavement starts running down both sides.
  I reach a junction and realise this is the village centre, I have been here a few times before, when the motorway has been closed off, or my Dad wanted to take the scenic route. I remember that there is a

garage workshop at the end of the main road, so there should be cars there in for repair; the keys will be with them.

I move off, keeping to the middle of the road and looking all around me as I walk. I can see some of the houses have open front doors, which is very creepy.
  I am looking left and right and fail to see the massive blood stains on the pavement and road until I am walking through it. The road surface is dark, which makes it harder to see the wet and sticky blood.
  There is a large stain, like someone was brought down here and bled out. There is too much blood to have just been from one person, but then the human body has something like eight pints of blood in it. I try to imagine what eight pints poured onto the floor would look like. The blood stains go on for a few metres.
  There was action here and recently too, the blood is hardly dry. A white UPVC door has bright red hand prints up high, smearing down into a large blood stain at the bottom of the doorway.

This was a mistake. I should have stayed on the motorway.

Up ahead and off to my right is a small selection of shops. I know there is a café here that used to serve really nice cream cakes, and there was a newsagent too.
  The shops on the right are opposite a small, village square, and that is where we used to park to visit the cake shop.
  I can’t see the square yet, but, as I get closer, I get a feeling of impending doom, and, as the row of houses on the left end give way to the square, I start to see people standing about.
  As I get closer, I correct myself. They are not people.
  They are undead.
  Lots of undead.

I stand completely still. There must be thirty or forty of them dressed in differing styles of night wear: pyjamas; nighties; pants; knickers and bras - some are naked. All of them are covered in blood.
  I can’t understand why they are all here, standing in the village square. Maybe they are drawn here, by a type of zombie intelligence.
  I slowly back away, one step at a time, watching for any sign that they have seen me.
  Behind me, I hear glass bottles being knocked and shattering. I spin round and see an undead male coming out of a doorway, kicking the milk bottles with his feet, making them spin them off to shatter on the road. This one is only a few doors down from me, if I move quickly I could get past him, but another of the undead comes out of the house opposite, staggering into the road, heading my way.
  They are on equal sides of the pavement now; almost like they had planned the ambush. The village square undead have sparked up - hearing the glass shatter, they have all turned towards me.
  ‘Shit, shit,’ I murmur quietly.

They are slow moving, shambling with their stiff-legged walk.

The village square undead are spilling out onto the road, heading my way.
  I turn and start back, thinking that I can still make it through the middle of the two behind me, but there are more now, emerging from houses further down the road. The road is not wide enough to get through safely.
  The newsagent’s is just a bit further up. I bloody hope it’s open. I run for it, passing the butcher’s window and the nice cake shop. I turn and head towards the butcher’s, thinking of the massive knives and cleavers they would have. The door is locked and too solid to force quickly. I run on towards the newsagent’s.

They
are across the road, ahead of me, coming from my left, slow moving and I pass them by a few metres as I reach the shop. The door is closed and I push hard, it’s locked.
  ‘Shit.’
  I look down and see the word “PULL” on the door. I yank the door and thankfully it opens. I close the old, wooden door behind me. I then put the lock in place and look for bolts, but there are none, instead there are two metal hooks meant to hold a bar - but I can’t see the bar anywhere.
  I move away from the door, as the undead get to the other side, banging into the glass pane of the door and I can hear the groaning.
  The shelves are full of chocolate bars and sweets, which make me realise how hungry and thirsty I am. I grab a can of
Red Bull
from the chiller cabinet and start drinking. The sickly, sweet drink is too fizzy to drink quickly and I belch loudly.
  I open my rucksack and start shoving chocolate bars inside. The knife is still there and I take it out; it still looks small and puny but it makes me feel better by holding it. I fill the bag with bars and some bottles of water.

Behind the counter is the cigarette display - all of the supermarkets have been fitted with sliding metal doors now, in a vain attempt by the government to hide cigarettes away. Smaller shops are not covered by the same laws and can still show their wares.
  I did give up smoking but hey, I’m surrounded by the undead in a strange shop; my home is destroyed and civilisation has fallen. Fuck it, time for a smoke.
  I take some
Drum
tobacco and green papers. Tailor made cigarettes are too expensive, so I switched to tobacco sometime ago; there was nearly always someone selling duty free tobacco from their holidays. After smoking roll ups for so long, I couldn’t go back to normal smokes, the taste is disgusting.
  I open the packet and roll a smoke, my hands shake a little, but it’s quickly done and I use a lighter from a display pack on the counter.
  I inhale deeply, and, within seconds, the nicotine has kicked in and mixed with the strong caffeine from the
Red Bull
. I feel light headed. Swaying a little, I put my hand to the counter and lower my head down, until my forehead is resting on the cool counter top.
  After a few seconds, I pull backwards and get a view of under the counter; a baseball bat is wedged onto the shelf.
  ‘Thanks very much,’ I say, into the quietness of the shop.
  I pull the bat out and hold it in both hands. I suppose these shops open early and could be easy targets, especially in the dark, winter mornings.
The cigarette is in my mouth and the smoke curls up and goes into my eyes, stinging them, and they water instantly. I clench my eyes shut and wait for a few seconds.
  As I focus again, I see an undead standing at the back of the shop behind a bead curtain that separates the shop from the private area. It is a large built, undead male with his fat gut straining against the material of his short sleeve shirt.
  There is blood all down the front of the shirt from a ragged wound in his neck. The undead moves slowly forward, pushing through the bead curtain, which rattles loudly. Drool is hanging down from its mouth and evil looking, red eyes stare straight at me.
  I look about for an avenue of escape, but there is nothing. The front door is the only other way out and I can see a mass of undead standing outside, staring in and walking at the door and windows.
  The undead shopkeeper shuffles forwards, his bulk fills the aisle as he heads towards the counter. I stand still and spit the cigarette away to the side, not taking my eyes off him.
  As he gets closer, I watch his head roll back and forth, then to the sides. As his head moves about, he still stares directly at me. Then his head hangs down and he looks up at me; menacing and very scary.
  He walks straight to the counter and I grasp the baseball bat at the base with two hands and slowly twist my upper body off to the right, raising the bat behind me, ready to strike.
  We stare into each others eyes, fixed, unmoving, neither of us blinking and long seconds go by. Then his lips peel back to show yellow, uneven teeth and his mouth starts to open wide. He can just feel the bite, he can visualise sinking his dirty, yellow teeth into my flesh.
  ‘Piss off,’ I shout and swing hard, slamming the bat into the side of his head. An almighty swing and he goes flying off to the side, colliding with the shelving unit. His body weight crashes into the metal frame, driving it backwards, spilling chocolate bars and sweets all over the floor.
  The follow through from my swing brings the bat straight into the side of the till with a thunk.
  I put the bat down on the counter and pick the till up; it’s very heavy. I yank it hard to pull the cables free and then I raise it above my head and slam it down on the squirming undead who is wrestling with the shelving on the floor. The till smashes into his head and bounces off, driving in the bones of his cheeks.

I move out from the counter with the bat in my hands, step over the now dead undead and move towards the beaded curtain.
  Stepping through with my bat raised, I see a small stock room and a flight of stairs going up. To the back of the stock room is a door - barred and bolted. I move over to the door and stand listening, there is a dirty, old, wired glass pane. All I can see is a small back yard and a wall a few feet away. There is no movement outside.
  I pull the bolts back, tug the door open and then peer out into the yard. It has a high brick wall and a wooden gate. I go over to the gate and raise the latch… it leads out onto a small road.
  The road is empty and clear on both sides.

Going left will take me towards the garage that I was originally heading for, but an idea forms in my mind and I quickly turn back.

I close the gate quietly, then head into the stock room and shut the back door, pushing the bolt into place.
  I move up the stairs, with the bat raised and ready. There is a small flat upstairs: a kitchen, lounge, bathroom and two small bedrooms.
  They are all clear.
  I go back down and into the shop. I see four cans of lighter fluid on display behind the counter and I  take them out into the stock room where I find another six cans, and a large box of matches.
  Back upstairs, the windows are of a sash type. I open the window at the front of the building and lean out.
  Below me are about fifty of the zombies, all gathered at the front of the shop. I have flashbacks to last night, when I was trapped… I had tried to make a Molotov cocktail, which resulted in puking up, but I don’t intend to stick around and watch this time.
  I pull the little plastic spout on the first one, up-end the can and squeeze a jet of liquid out onto the crowd below - I try to aim at their faces. They seem excited by the liquid being sprayed on them, and are still very slow moving, but I can hear more groans and noises coming from them.
  It takes quite a long time to empty each can; leaning out and bending over, to prevent any spraying on me or the windowsill.
  I open the box of matches and pause for a second, hardly believing what I am about to do… mass murder at any other time. I strike a match and flick it out, but it expires before it falls a few feet. I try another and the same thing happens. The third time I lean out and brace my feet, ready to pull back in quickly. I extend my arms, strike a match and quickly shove it into the open box, pushing it into the dark heads of the little sticks. The box flares instantly; a bright light and stench of sulphur. I drop the box and pull myself in, ducking down below the window.
  I hear a whooshing noise as the lighter fluid ignites. I peer out, just a glimpse, before I run.
  The flames are spreading quickly, leaping from undead to undead. I remember the sickening smell of burning flesh from last night and I quickly move away from the window, down the stairs and out of the back door, to the gate and out into the street.
  I turn left and start running, bat in hand.