The Undead: Day 21, page 1
The Undead
Day Twenty-One
RR Haywood
rrhaywood.com
Copyright © R. R. Haywood 2017
R. R. Haywood asserts his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
“The Undead” ™ and “The Living Army” ™ are Trademarks.
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 inclusion within this story of the character “Anja” is used as a prize in a competition and although to a degree they are based on the real persons they remain fictitious characters within a work of fiction and the author asserts his full rights to amend, delete or change those character(s).
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.
The boy will be a boy.
Not a killer.
One
Day Seven
The evening is warm, sultry even. The sun slowly gives way for the moon to take the night. In other parts of the world people wake and give prayers to whatever Gods they hold dear that they are alive to see another day.
Give hope for what you have and hold your loved ones close because monsters now roam your land and darkness is upon you. This is the end of times. The end of days.
Not here though. Not in Northern England. Here the tranquil rural lanes are bordered by high hedgerows and vast fields of crops rolling away to the horizon. Here is many miles from the fort where a former supermarket manager is preparing to make a stand against an army led by Darren.
The CD plays in the stereo. The windows are down. Sunlight streams through the canopy dappling the windscreen. The red Skoda Octavia 1.9 TDI holds a steady course.
The driver reads the road ahead. Seeing the camber of the road. The bends. The width. The junctions. His eyes glance frequently at the mirrors and down to the instrument panel on the dashboard. He holds the steering wheel with both hands. His thumbs do not loop to grip the wheel. If there is a sudden accident, the jolt could break his thumbs and he needs his thumbs. How can he hold his pistols or knives with broken thumbs?
He glances to the boy. The boy never normally stops talking but he is quiet now. Almost reflective in his manner and lost in his thoughts.
‘Plane with hands?’
The boy blinks, re-focussing with a distinct motion of his head that turns to look at Gregori.
‘You do plane with hands?’ Gregori asks again.
The boy shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. The boy always says something. He never not says something, and normally repeats it at least fifty times.
‘See,’ Gregori pushes his right hand out the open driver’s window. His palm open and held flat against so the wind goes equally over and under the blade of his hand. The boy leans forward to watch. ‘Plane,’ Gregori says. He tilts his hand slowly, feeling the wind give lift to his palm. He tilts more. The force is greater. Another tilt and he submits for the wind to lift his arm up. The boy watches intently. His whole face focussed with an intense gaze.
‘You do this,’ Gregori says, nodding at the boy.
The boy shuffles closer to his window to hold his hand out. He glances back to see Gregori’s hand now held blade forward again and copies the action, locking his arm out with his palm flat.
Gregori tilts his hand. The boy does the same to feel the rush of air giving lift to his arm that starts rising like a plane taking off. A wing is created. Natural lift is given. The boy’s eyes widen that such a thing can happen. He watches his own arm soar up until it hits the window frame.
‘Plane,’ Gregori says.
The boy brings his arm down to do it again. Flat first, tilt then rise. He turns to grin toothy and wide at Gregori but still he doesn’t say anything. He tries again. Flat, tilt, rise. He does it again and tenses his little arm to resist the push, feeling the wind buffeting the open sail of his palm. Twitches of tilt send his arm up and down as he rides the power of wind. Then he goes still and loses that focus in his eyes. The smile freezes and slowly fades.
Gregori looks at the back of the boy’s head then to the passenger wing mirror to see the reflection of the boy’s face. Maybe he is tired. The day has been long and hot and this quiet journey in the car has already been a couple of hours.
He goes back to searching for a place to stay. Somewhere remote that is detached and isolated. Somewhere they can stay safely away from other people. Somewhere the boy can be a boy, not a killer. He has seen plenty of houses, farms and cottages but none were right. Some had obstructed views of the land around them. Some were too big. Some were too close to towns and villages. It’s no matter. He will keep searching until the right one is found.
A single set of power lines overhead. He tracks the direction and gains a glimpse of a roof in the distance. His right foot eases to slow the car as he commences an assessment of the area.
No other dwellings nearby. Thick forests and copses break up the rolling fields and meadows. The land rises and falls with hills and valleys.
He spots the driveway and slows the vehicle again, cruising to a gentle speed to take in the house in the distance set in vast open grounds that gives perfect line of sight.
This is good.
He steers in towards the mouth of the driveway and brings the vehicle to a stop. Engine off. He listens first. Breathing easy and slow to detect any noises. Nothing.
He has a non-threatening profile. The vehicle is a family saloon. He is an adult male with a young boy. A father and son. They have taken the family car to try and escape the towns. Yes. This is the approach. He will drive slowly as though nervous. He will lean forward to peer through the windscreen and make sure that anyone looking sees someone who is afraid. When they get out, he will hold the boy’s hand and retain that look of fear. Yes. This is the way.
‘Boy,’ Gregori says, drawing the child’s attention to him. ‘We go house. You hold hand.’
‘Okay,’ the boy says, unsmiling, unlaughing, unresponsive.
‘What wrong?’ Gregori asks, leaning forward to peer through the windscreen. He takes in every window. Every door. Every angle, corner, recess and every possible point of danger.
Maintaining his nervous persona, Gregori makes a show of staring to the left and right and even lifts his hand as though ready to wave should anyone show themselves.
As he nears the house he slows the Skoda while turning the wheel to let the tyres crunch the gravel to make more noise. Still no response. He stops the car but waits while leaning forward to scan the front of the house and spots the discrete cameras fitted above the door and more on the sides of the house and under the eaves. A prickle inside. His senses coming to the fore.
He opens his door and pauses. Nothing. He gets out, stretches and looks scared. Nothing. He puts his hands behind his back as though to tug his trousers up and checks the pistol is secure in his waistband. He hates not using a holster. Only amateurs and gangsters shove pistols in waistbands.
‘Boy, we walk to house.’
The boy drops down to walk silently to the front of the car. When he holds his hand out the boy takes it instantly and walks quietly at his side towards the door.
‘HELLO?’ Gregori shouts, adopting an English accent.
Nothing. No reply.
‘ANYONE THERE?’ he knows to speak only small words when adopting an English accent. Anything more than two simple words shows his accent.
He walks on with the boy holding his hand. Silence save for the crunch of gravel underfoot and the dull clicks coming from the cooling engine of the car but the prickle is there. This house is not empty.
A thump inside. A series of low bangs of wood hitting wood. A voice. Male and hushed. Someone runs up the stairs inside. Seconds later the banging ends.
Gregori pretends not to have noticed and continues calling out while looking round as though scared and nervous. He even makes his gait change to show a tremble in his legs and his hand shakes when he lifts it to shield his eyes. The boy looks up at him as though studying the change in manner.
‘WHAT D’YA WANT?’
A rough voice calls out. London accent. East end. Harsh and strong.
‘Hello?’ Gregori calls back the second he hears the voice. He falters as though startled.
Benny curses under his breath behind the front door. It’s been eight fucking days since they got here. Eight days of being cooped up in a house. The power went out the day after they got here. They don’t even have a radio. No phone signal. No landline. They were only meant to be here for three days and now there’s some twat and his kid outside. He peers through the spyhole to the nervous looking man and the sulky looking kid. They’ve obviously got lost or broken down. There’s no phone signal for miles round here.
‘HELLO?’
Benny tuts at the man calling out again. They could have pretended no one was here but the bitch started making noise. He glares at Scott who wilts back with a shrug and a shake of his head to show it wasn’t his fault. It was Todd’s turn to look after her.
> Shit. This is all they need. The geezer outside looks like a bleeding accountant or something. The nosey type that like calling the pigs to say they knocked on a door and heard people inside but no one answered so perhaps an officer should pop along and check? You know, it might be an old person that fell over or something.
‘Shit,’ Benny whispers.
‘You going out?’ Scott asks.
‘Gotta ain’t I now,’ Benny hisses. He reaches back to check his pistol is secure in his waistband then pulls his shirt out to cover the bulge of the weapon. ‘Keep that bitch quiet…put ya fackin’ gun to her head.’
‘What’s goin’ on?’ Todd asks from the landing upstairs.
‘Geezer outside,’ Scott says, running up with his pistol in hand. ‘Broke down or sommit. Benny goin’ out to speak to him…he said to put our guns to the bitch’s head so she stays schtum.’
‘Don’t fackin’ shoot her for fack’s sake,’ Benny whispers up.
‘What’s happening?’ Carl asks, yawning and stretching in the doorway to the living room.
‘Some fackin’ twat broke down or sommit,’ Benny says. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘You want me to get the shotgun?’ Carl asks.
‘No I don’t want the fackin’ shotgun for fack’s sake. What for? Shoot some fackin’ accountant for breakin’ down in his motor? Get the filth here quicker than anyfin that will ya fackin’ plank. Fack off back to sleep…’
‘Alright, Benny. Was only saying,’ Carl says with a huff.
‘What’s up with Benny?’ Andy asks as Carl goes back into the living room to grab the packet of smokes from the coffee table littered with handguns, shotgun shells and overflowing ashtrays.
‘Some fackin’ twat broke down outside,’ Carl says. ‘Ere’, Jerry, get the kettle on.’
‘Will do,’ Jerry says from the kitchen. ‘Brian awake is he?’
‘I am now,’ Brian grumbles from the depths of an armchair in the living room.
‘What’s going on?’ Chris asks, coming out of one of the bedrooms upstairs.
‘Geezer broke down,’ Scott says, walking past him towards the end bedroom.
‘Tom, you best wake up mate,’ Chris says going back into his room. ‘And you Charlie, Benny’s going out to talk to some geezer with a broken motor.’
‘Fack me backwards,’ Benny mutters, pulling the bolts back on the front door before turning the key to swing the door in. He strides out with a big grin and charm oozing from his friendly manner.
‘Alright, mate! What’s up? Broken down have ya? We don’t got no phone here…alright, nipper…’
A blink of an eye. A beat of a heart. A lifetime of experience. The weathered complexion of the man. The faded tattoos on his arms and hands and on the side of his neck. The solid bulk of his shoulders. The thick gold chain and the creases in his shirttails that tell Gregori the man just untucked his shirt before coming out. An isolated house with clear line of sight. Cameras fitted. A muffled thump from inside. Whispered voices. As the man walks out so he brings the pungent stench of body odour and cigarette smoke with him. A combination Gregori has smelled the world over. The very essence of the criminal fraternity.
The boy smiles suddenly wide and toothy. His eyes twinkling as he pulls his hand from Gregori’s to clap in excitement.
Benny stops dead. The sight of the boy isn’t right. Something jars him. A lifetime of experience. He takes in the man. The pock marked skin. The bulging eyes. It’s not possible. Not here. Not for this.
‘FACK IT!’ Benny roars, reaching back to snatch his pistol. ‘UGLYMAN….’
Gregori lets him draw. It makes life easier for Gregori if the opponent has his pistol in hand. He leans right as the first shot is fired while bringing his own pistol up to fire a single shot that sends the nine millimetre round spinning through the air that forms a neatly cauterised entry wound in the middle of Benny’s head but takes the back of his skull off in a burst of pink mist.
‘Brains!’ The boy laughs, still clapping.
Gregori moves fast. A blur of motion to run and dip to grab Benny’s gun then rising as he goes on towards the front door with two pistols now up and aimed.
‘More brains,’ the boy laughs, jumping up and down on the spot.
The Uglyman goes to work. There is no thinking. Only instinct. He strides in through the door and clocks the movement of men lunging for weapons in the living room on his right. He fires while turning. Always one at a time. Never both pistols together. Aim and fire. Aim and fire. Left and right. Each bullet counts. Each bullets strikes a mark.
Carl goes for the sawn off shotgun at the side of the sofa and dies instantly from the bullets slamming into his body that go through his heart and lungs. Brian roars up from the armchair and slumps straight back down again with the back of his head blown off. Andy grabs a pistol as he dives and his last thought before he’s killed is that he’s always wanted to dive across a room and snatch a gun from a table in a shootout. He always thought it would end differently though and not with his brains splodging on the carpet.
Men shouting. Men screaming out scared and panicked. Gregori drops the pistols as he walks and leans back to slide the single knife from his belt. He ducks as Jerry comes out from the kitchen firing his handgun. A flick of the wrist and the knife spins across the short distance into Jerry’s throat. Gregori dives across the floor, twisting as he goes to catch the pistol dropped by Jerry that he uses to fire up into Jerry’s arse and groin.
Another man in the kitchen frantically trying to unjam a poorly maintained submachine gun. He screams out in terror at the sight of the Uglyman staring at him with an absolute lack of expression.
Gregori fires two shots into the man. One in the shoulder to make him spin and the next in the head. More blood sprays. More brains splashing out.
‘Haha,’ the boy says from outside. ‘I Gregori,’ he adds in a mock deep voice. ‘Come, we go…’
Gregori tuts as he rises effortlessly to his feet, takes his knife back, wipes the blade clean and goes through the kitchen to check the ground floor rooms before moving down the hallway to the base of the stairs.
Feet thunder down the stairs. Gregori lets Chris reach the bottom before shooting him dead. He also waits for Charlie to thunder down and reach the bottom before shooting him dead too. Tom goes slower but goes nonetheless and even fires down a few rounds as he descends. Plucking shots at the doorway and the walls. Gregori fires through the banister rails into his legs. Tom falls down to land screaming at the bottom then looks up into the face of Gregori aiming at his head. A flash of light and his brains also come out while outside a young boy claps his hands and laughs.
Upstairs, Scott and Todd stare at each other. Both wide eyed. Both suddenly pale and terrified. They both flinch at the sound of the first step being taken on the stairs. A second. A third. Clump. Clump. Slow and steady to instil fear.
‘WE’LL BLOW HER FACKING BRAINS OUT…’ Scott screams. ‘WE WILL…DON’T FINK WE WON’T DO IT…’
‘I not here for woman.’ A quiet voice. A calm voice. A thick accent.
‘Gregori? I need a wee wee.’
‘One minute. Wait.’ Gregori calls back.
‘I can’t wait…’ the boy whines.
‘I’M TELLIN’ YA…WE’LL FACKIN SHOOT HER IN THE HEAD…’
‘Gregori? Gregori? Gregori?’
‘What, Boy? I work now.’
‘Can I do a wee wee outside, Gregori?’
‘Yes. Do the wee wee outside.’
‘YAY! Can I wee wee on the car?’
‘No! Not wee wee on the car. Wee wee on the grass.’
‘Ah but…on the wheel. Just on the wheel, Gregori. Please, Gregori. Please…’
‘Okay,’ Gregori snaps, halfway up the stairs and rubbing his forehead with the back of one hand clutching a pistol. ‘Wheel. Not wee in car. No wee wee in car.’
‘Yay!’
‘What the fuck?’ Todd asks Scott.
‘Boy…No wee wee in car.’
‘Okay, Gregori.’
‘He wee in car. I know he wee wee in car.’
‘WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?’
‘I Gregori.’
