The Undead. The First Seven Days (5 page)

I start to move over, towards the middle, but the car does the same - it’s coming too fast and I pedal hard to get over to the left side. The car passes me, going very fast, and I catch a glimpse of a woman driving.
  As the vehicle pulls ahead of me I see someone in the back seat, but it looks weird, like the passenger is sitting up and leaning forward to speak to the driver.
  The car suddenly veers off to the left and strikes the safety barrier with a loud crash, as the front of the car impacts the back and spins round; the momentum causing the vehicle to flip over,  bouncing high at first and then rolling, until it comes to rest on its roof.

There are bits flying off into the sky; a wheel is sheered off and bounces across the road, hitting the central barrier and rolling away.  The noise is terrible. Then I hear a loud bang as the car impacts on the tarmac as it flips over. Then the vehicle comes to rest and all is instantly quiet again, apart from the squeaking of my pedal as I cycle faster towards the wreck.

The car was going so fast that it covered a lot of ground in those few seconds, and it takes me a while to reach it.
  I am cycling as hard as I can, the wind is blowing into my face and flapping the sleeves of my tee-shirt.
  The car looks destroyed, the front end is crumpled in and the remaining front wheel looks buckled. The windows have shattered into thousands of tiny pieces that are now glittering on the road.
  There is a foul odour of burning rubber, mixed with chemicals and I can smell petrol too. There are liquids coming out of the front of the car and pooling on the ground.
  As I give a final burst of speed - with my arse off the saddle - I hear a loud crunch and feel a sensation through my feet; the bike shudders and vibrates, then there is suddenly no resistance against my feet on the pedals - the chain has snapped and come free.
  The pedals don’t have to drive the cogs now and the sudden free movement causes me to lose control. I am only a few feet away and heading straight towards the car. I apply the brakes and steer to the right, to avoid hitting the car, the bike hits some of the liquid and the back tyre loses grip, causing me to fall off and slide a couple of feet on my back.

I lay there stunned for a second… how is it possible that I can almost cycle into the only stationary vehicle on three lanes of motorway?
  I hear noises behind me, coming from the car, and I get to my feet, moving towards it.
  The vehicle is upside down, with the windows low against the ground - the roof of the car has been flattened down and I can see that the doors are buckled.

I crouch down and can hear more movement from inside.
  A slender female arm thrusts out and I jump back, thinking of the undead, but then I hear a voice. It is quiet and strained: ‘Help.’
  I call out and lower myself down to look inside. I can see a tangle of blond hair, and a hand that is opening and closing, then the fingers flex.

‘Please help.’
  ‘Are you okay?’ I answer.
  This is perhaps the most ridiculous thing anyone can say, given the circumstances; she is clearly not okay.
  I take a chance and reach out to her hand, and, as soon as we touch, she grasps my fingers and her head lifts up. I can see a normal face, no bloodshot eyes or drooling spittle - her hair is a bit messy, but I put that down to the horrific accident she has just been in.
  I think back to my First Aid training… she might have suffered a neck or spinal injury, so moving her could be more dangerous than leaving her, but I have no phone, so cannot call for an ambulance - I strongly doubt there are any ambulances anyway. There is no choice… there won’t be any help coming.
  ‘I’m going to try and pull you out,’ I say to her.
  ‘Okay,’ she says, her voice strained and weak.

I take hold of her wrist with both hands and start to pull. I worry about hurting her and don’t pull hard enough. I try again and she starts to move. As I pull her out a little she shifts position and pushes her other arm out too. I take one wrist in each hand and pull, she is surprisingly light and her upper body is soon clear. I cannot see any blood on her white blouse.
  As her upper body is pulled free of the car she gives a piercing scream.

I immediately let go of her arms.

Her legs must be trapped…  I imagine a shard of metal gouging into her leg as I was pulling her.
  ‘I’m so… so… sorry, hang on, let me look,’ I say to her.
  She screams again and is thrashing her arms and upper body. I drop down quickly and try to see inside, I have to go down on my stomach and the broken glass crunches underneath me. I wriggle close to the car, until we are lying next to each other.
  Looking inside, there is a man laying down the middle of the car, his body wedged between the gaps of the front seats, his legs in the back of the car. One of his legs is bent at the wrong angle; the knee joint clearly shattered. An arm has been shorn off, leaving a bloody stump at the shoulder.
  One of the woman’s legs is underneath the dashboard area, where the pedals are. The airbag has deployed and is now sagging down from the steering wheel. The woman’s other leg is across the passenger seat with the man’s head resting on it and I watch as he opens his jaw wide and takes a massive bite into her calf muscle. His face is already covered in fresh, wet blood from the bites he has previously taken and I can see the wounds in her shredded skin. He is moving his face from side to side, like he is eating a melon.
  I wriggle backwards and get to my feet. I take hold of her wrists again and pull hard, she comes out of the car and I keep pulling her, until we are a few metres clear.
  She is screaming loudly and, as soon as I let go of her wrists, she bends over on her side and grabs her injured leg.
  ‘My leg! Fuck! It hurts! Oh… fuck! It hurts!’ she screams, in agony.
  I look down at her leg, the blood is pouring out from the wound. It looks deep, the bite must be down to the bone, her legs are very slender and the muscle is well defined. I need to stop the bleeding, but I don’t have any bandages. I take the belt off of my jeans and start to wrap it round her thigh.
  ‘We need to stop the bleeding,’ I say to her. ‘I’m going to pull this tight. It might hurt.’
  I thread the belt through the clasp and draw the material tight against her skin, then pull harder and I can see the skin next to the belt going white.
  I pull hard and try to hold it in place. but the wound is still pumping blood out; a large pool forming around us. It must be in the wrong place and I loosen the belt and push it higher up her thigh. She is wearing a short, black skirt and I push it up so I can try the belt again. Stupidly, I feel very awkward, this woman is very attractive and it feels wrong to be pushing her skirt up and feeling her thighs, so I apologise to her.
  ‘It’s okay, don’t worry, please just stop the bleeding. I’m bleeding too much, there’s so much blood,’ she says, in a remarkably, calm voice.
  I pull the belt tight and I can see that it hurts her.
  ‘I’m sorry… I’m so sorry,’ I keep apologising.
  ‘Just pull it tight and keep going,’ she speaks through gritted teeth, her face going red.

I pull hard, but there is no change and the blood keeps coming. She is on her side, looking down at her leg.
  ‘Bloody pull it then,’ she growls at me.
  I wrench with all of my strength, the belt has gone round her leg and through a metal hoop and I am pulling it back on itself, the metal hoop digging into her thigh.

I sit down and push my feet against her thigh, so that I can gain leverage.
  She screams, and the blood flow eases, but I can’t tie the belt off and I can’t hold it like this for long; the belt is too tight against her leg to push the end through.
  I wrap the long end back round her leg again. There is a double layer now and I try to force the outer length under the first one.
  I am still pulling to keep the belt from loosening, and it takes a while to slowly work the material under to keep it tight.
  She has gone quiet and I think she must be gritting her teeth. I slowly ease my grip and the belt holds in place, she is still bleeding but it has slowed considerably.
  ‘I’ve done it,’ I say hoarsely.
  I’m breathing hard from the effort.

No response and I look up to her face, she is still and her eyes are closed, the redness has gone from her face. She looks asleep.
  ‘Hey, hey… wake up!’ I tap her on the shoulder, but get no response.

I gently slap the side of her face, just enough to try and wake her. Still no response. I lower my head, so that my ear is next to her mouth and I can feel very soft breath on my cheek.
  A groan behind me… the undead male is trying to crawl out of the car, his head is out and he is wriggling and clawing along, stretching his remaining arm out towards the prone woman. It takes me a couple of steps and I am at the car. I drive my right foot down onto his head. It feels solid and I feel the jolt go up through my leg. My left hand is holding the car for balance and I am stamping down harder and harder. I aim for the neck and, within a couple of blows, I feel a crack under my foot.
  The undead is instantly limp and lifeless.

I hobble over to the woman and drop down at her side. I then lower my ear again but I cannot feel the soft breathing anymore.
  ‘Wake up, come on, please wake up,’ I am pleading, I put my fingers to her throat, feeling for a pulse, but there is nothing.
  I try her wrist and then back to her neck… no sign of life. I lift her eyelids; I don’t know what I am looking for, but they always do this in the movies… it must be the pupils, to see if they dilate. There is no movement, just blank eyes.
  In desperation, I lower the side of my head to her chest, trying to hear a heartbeat. I stay for a few seconds, attempting to calm my breathing, so that I can listen properly.
  Her hands suddenly reach round and grab me, pulling my head into her chest. Her breasts are squished into the side of my face. She is gripping so tight and I can feel her trying to rise up, while trying to pull me down; the equal force preventing her from lifting herself.
  I try to pull away, but her grip is so strong; a hand on the back of my head and nails digging into my scalp, clawing at me. I can’t get leverage, my left arm is now underneath her, my right arm beating at her. I use my right hand to try and prise her fingers from the back of my head but they are so strong and I can’t move them.
  I can hardly breathe as her breasts push into my mouth and cover my nose; she has rolled onto her side and is trying to curl round.

I use my left hand and grope about, until I feel her hair. I take a handful of hair and jerk her head back, but I pull so hard that her head is snapped back and she instantly straightens and arches her back. I manage to pull back and extract my head from under her vice-like grip. I get my head free and look at her, her eyes are open, completely bloodshot; the whites replaced with red. Her lips are pulled back and her perfect white teeth are exposed. She rolls over towards me and I jerk backwards, trying to keep out of her reach.
  ‘Fucking bitch… you fucking bitch,’ I shout out, in sudden anger and fear.
  I get to my feet and kick her in the face. She is still writhing and I do it again; pulling back like a footballer, ramming my foot into her nose. I feel the bone crunch and her head snaps back, I do it again and her head is snapped to the side at an unnatural angle - and yet she carries on.

I stagger away with my hands to my head, deeply in shock and feeling sick that I lashed out like that, kicking a woman in the face.
  She spoke to me and we shared something, maybe only a few seconds in time but we shared a connection; two living people.
  We have hundreds, sometimes thousands of interactions every day; we speak to people without thinking anything of it. But after everything that’s happened since last night and seeing the undead kill people and watch them turn, then seeing the car crash and getting to her while she was alive… another human being that needed help. She was alive and spoke to me and I failed, I failed to rescue her.
  If I hadn’t fallen off that bike, if I had got up quicker and moved faster. If I had pulled hard enough the first time, I may have saved her, but I didn’t do those things and she died.
  It’s my fault. She looked at me, spoke to me, we made eye contact and I told her that I would help her.
  The sickening action of kicking her replays in my mind - the image of my foot connecting with her face.
  This is awful, the most awful thing I have ever done.

Every previous sin can be forgiven and forgotten. Every previous bad act I have perpetrated is erased. Nothing will ever be the same again from this point on.
  I tried to save her and I failed but then she came back and was attacking me; the strength in her hands and arms was incredible. She turned and became undead, and I had to stop her… didn’t I?
  I justify the action to myself… if I didn’t kill her, she could have got me or someone else.
  I have to change this thought process. She was not a
she
when I kicked her, she was an undead.
  They are all undead.
  The woman from earlier on was not a young lady out for the evening, getting excited about wearing her new low-cut, blue dress. She was not a she.
It
was an undead.
  They all are.
  The quicker I get that into my head, the safer I will be and the greater chance for survival I will have.
  They are all the undead.