The Undead Day Twenty (42 page)

Twenty-Eight

Pride is a funny thing. Pride will see a person fail but pride will also see a person suffer the worst of times and hold their head high. Pride will bring a person down but pride will carry you through hell and high water.

Pride and nothing more. Ego and nothing else. That’s all it is. That one thing from Blowers calling him out over the radio to the others. Calling him a coward. Maddox isn’t a coward.

He stops and turns back. He walks then jogs and runs to vault the fences as the anger inside from the unfairness of his life bubbles up. He isn’t a coward. He lands and runs to vault the next. It’s not cowardice to want to be free. He jumps the next and lands softly to go back over the gardens. How is it cowardice to run away from those that will harm him? How is that cowardice? He isn’t a coward.

Cowards don’t go back to help other people. Cowards don’t go to locked back doors in the middle of a town swamped with infected. Cowards don’t shoulder the door open and step inside to look down on a woman and cowards don’t suddenly stop and wonder what the hell they are meant to do now.

‘Shit.’

He looks down at her. At the blood between her legs and her swollen stomach. He blanches at the smell of piss and shit that must have come out when she was straining to push. He reels at the wet heat, at the crushing humidity and at the realisation that his reaction to being called a coward brought him here but now he doesn’t know what to do.

‘Hey,’ he drops to her side, propping his rifle against the side. She doesn’t respond but murmurs softly, delirious and clearly bordering on losing consciousness. ‘Hey,’ he says louder, firmer. Still no response. His face twitches at the uncertainty of faced with a thing he knows nothing about.

She didn’t hear the back door being forced in and she doesn’t hear his voice either. The awareness only comes when he gently touches her hand. She smiles at him, weak and wan with a lack of focus in her eyes.

‘Hey,’ she says slowly, softly. ‘Did you get them?’

‘Get what?’ he asks, looking round the room.

‘The Doritos,’ she chuckles.

‘Er yeah, yeah I did,’ he says. Her hand is sticky with drying blood. As his eyes adjust to the darkness so he takes in her features and the dryness of her mouth as she tries to talk.

‘Salsa,’ she says, licking her dry lips.

Water. Get water. He looks round for a cup or glass but finds nothing. How long has she been without a drink? He goes to move to rise for the sink as her hand shoots out to clamp on his wrist.

‘Don’t go,’ she breathes the words fast and terrified.

‘Get you water yeah,’ he says, prising her hand off.

‘Michael?’

‘I’m Maddox…’

‘Is Michael back?’

‘I’ll get you some water…’ she won’t let go but digs in with a grip that belies the slenderness of her wrists. He pulls at her fingers, easing them back to yank his arm free as her head lolls side to side with soft words uttered and missed.

He runs the tap, finds a cup and swills it out. Smells of cleaning detergents reach his nose. She prepared the room and got ready for this but she seems out of it. He avoids looking down at the area between her legs and focusses on filling the mug.

‘Water,’ he says. She murmurs and rolls her head side to side. ‘Hey, water…you thirsty?’

‘Huh?’ she asks, blinking at him.

‘Drink yeah,’ he edges closer as she spots the cup and tries to rise but the movement sends a surge of fresh pain through her body. She cries out as his wavering hand tries to lift her up but he’s too passive, too gentle. She writhes in agony, grunting from the pain.

‘Leave it,’ he says.

‘Thirsty,’ she grunts, reaching a hand for the mug that knocks it from his hand. The contents splash down over his legs, soaking his lap and her top. She scrabbles for the mug, her brain registering the offer of a drink and how thirsty she is. He fills the cup again and rushes back and this time is assertive in his movements of lifting her head and shoulders up. That it hurts her is obvious but she goes up and clutches at the cup that he guides to her lips. She downs it in one with water cascading down her chin.

‘More,’ she gasps.

He lowers her down, goes back, re-fills and guides the cup once more to her lips. She drinks deep and solid. She absorbs fluid into a body that has been too long without water. It rushes through her system giving an instant tiny lift to her energy that helps focus her mind.

‘More,’ she breathes, panting hard as she realises how hot she is.

Again he fills the cup and helps her drink. She guzzles it down while grimacing at the pain of having to lift her head.

Degrees of awareness come back. That she is giving birth. That she is bleeding. That there is a strange man in her kitchen. Maddox sees the transition as the focus comes back into her eyes.

She looks down at her belly then at the blood pooled out. The fear comes back. The pain intensifies. The comprehension of death and her baby inside her stomach. A contraction hits. Strong and pulsing that makes her drop her head with a thud as she locks out and stiffens from the agony.

Maddox watches, his eyes flicking over her body and the way she grunts with immense straining pressure. Her face flushes a deep red, the veins bulge, her hands curl into fists as she fights to push.

‘What do I do?’

The pain renders her unable to respond or even hear him. She pushes and strains because that is what her body is telling her to do. It is the only thing she knows in those few seconds and so everything else, including the ego of Maddox Doku, becomes insignificant.

When it ends, it does so suddenly. A cessation of straining and an end to the effort as she slumps gasping for air. She breathes hard and fast, too fast. Maddox remembers something about women needing to breathe calmly through a contraction, or was it
with
a contraction?

‘It’s not coming out,’ she says in a growl of a voice that breaks off in a sob, ‘it won’t come out…’

‘What…’ Maddox flounders, helpless and impotent.

‘It won’t come out…’ she sobs and cries, tears streaming down her face. He thinks to offer more water, to mop her brow or hold her hand but instead he stares on unable to summon words. ‘Get it out…’

‘Wh..what?’

‘Get it out…GET IT OUT…’

‘Shush, don’t shout. Don’t shout…tell me what to do…’

‘It’s…’ she swallows and breathes, ‘it won’t come out…get it out…’

‘But…’

‘It’ll die. You got to get it out. Listen to me,’ she fixes him a look, holding his eyes on hers. ‘I’m bleeding too much…the baby,’ she bites the sob down at voicing the word that means so much, ‘the baby is stuck…you have…you have to get it out.’

‘How?’ he asks, his tone even, deep and re-assuring. She takes in the youthful look of his face but his eyes are older, wiser. Her senses come alive. She spots the rifle leaning against the side and the pistol on his belt but right now she doesn’t care who he is. Just that he is here. ‘How?’ he asks again, asserting the question with intensity.

‘Look,’ she says.

He stares at her in response at what he assumes is the pre-cursor to a statement.

‘Down there,’ she says when he doesn’t move.

‘What?’

‘Look…look at it…see if…’

‘You want me to look down there?’

‘Yes I bloody want you to look down there…LOOK!’

‘I am! I will…don’t shout, just…got a torch, you can’t shout…don’t shout…’ he digs the torch from his bag and moves down through the blood to peer tentatively at the area between her legs. The blood is thick and glistening wet. Her thighs smeared with the same.

‘What do you see?’ she asks, her voice strangled with pain and fatigue.

‘Er, blood yeah,’ he says, ‘like loads of it.’

‘Can you see the baby?’

‘The baby?’

‘Can you see it?’

‘Er…’ Maddox twitches the torch beam towards her groin while a voice inside chastises him for looking at a ladies vagina in this way. The sight stuns him. Blood everywhere and the opening stretched wide and long.

‘Can you see it?’

‘Er…I’m…’ he flounders, staggered, repulsed and mesmerised all at the same time. ‘Your er…your vagina…it’s big right? Like er…’

‘The baby,’ she growls, ‘can you see the fucking baby?’

‘What…what’s it look like?’

‘LIKE A FUCKING BABY!’

‘Shush, please don’t shout…I’m looking yeah,’ he peers closer, trying to make sense of something he has never seen look like that before. He blinks, focusses and switches on. Her opening is stretched wide but there’s blood everywhere, obscuring what he can see. ‘I er…I gotta wash you…too much blood, you get me?’ he slips into his normal voice in the panic of the moment.

‘Do it…’ she heaves as the contraction comes again. The urge to push building. He darts off to the tap, fills a cup and drops down to wince and grimace as he hesitantly pours the contents over her groin. Some of the blood runs away but it’s not enough. She drops her head to strain with low grunts of pain and pressure. He fills again, pours again and finally thinks to fill something bigger than a mug. He uses the bowl on the side. While she writhes and pushes he pours the water down over her groin. The blood washes away pink and watery. More comes but the flow of water is faster than the fresh blood seeps out.

‘Head,’ he blurts, spotting a mass of black curls. Is it? He drops on his knees with the torch to go closer. ‘I think it’s the head…’ he reaches out without thinking. His brain telling him the feel of the object will help his decision making process to determine of it is a head. He touches hot wet curls of hair and the density of bone that can only be a skull. ‘It is…it’s the head…’

She strains and pushes as the contraction goes on. The agony is searing and she drops back when it eases to pant and swim back to focus.

He pauses, unsure of what to do, but continually glancing at the head of the baby. He looks closer but can only see the crown and he has no idea which way the baby is facing.

‘Got to…got to…’ she pants and gasps for air.

‘I can see the head,’ he says again.

‘Okay…can you see the face?’

‘No…just like the top of the head…you’s gonna push yeah?’

‘Can’t,’ she gasps. ‘It’s not coming…’

‘Gotta push it out…push hard…’

‘I have been…’ how she stays calm is beyond him but she does. His mere presence brings that calmness. The fast he isn’t panicking or running away. He’s worried and nervous but his voice is deep, his manner is strong too. ‘I don’t know what to do…’ she pants and tries to think back to the classes and the information she was bombarded with. The stuff they said about what happens if things go wrong. She read about it online and in books but right now she can’t bring the details back. Is the cord wrapped round its neck? Is the baby stuck? What does she do?

‘Just push,’ Maddox says, ‘gotta push…push hard…’

‘I’ve been trying,’ the sob comes back into her voice.

‘Try now…try…push…what’s your name?’

‘Juliette…Julie…’

‘Julie…listen, Julie…push, you’s got to push it out…yeah?’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay yeah? Push…’

‘Okay. I will.’

‘Push…’

She summons air, breathes deep and feels the contraction coming. She rides the wave until the urge hits then she pushes. She pushes harder than she has pushed before. She strains with everything she has got.

‘Push…come on…push,’ Maddox wills her on, staring at the head that doesn’t move. Her whole body writhes, her pelvis lifts off the floor, blood comes out, piss jets but the head doesn’t move, not one bit. ‘Harder…push harder…’

She cries out with a scream that escapes her lips because there is a man with a gun here and he’s telling her to push and it’s safe to make noise now. She strains, grunts and heaves and the pain makes her want to die as it gets worse, harder, sharper until she flakes and breaks off panting and weeping.

‘Didn’t come,’ Maddox says, his voice deep but the words blunt.

She sobs harder. The agony, the desperation and fatigue and the worst nightmare now confirmed. ‘Cut me,’ she gasps.

‘What?’

‘Cut me…get it out…it’ll die…cut me…’

‘I ain’t cutting you…you’s gotta push again.’

‘I tried. Listen to me. Listen…I’ve been hours…it’s not coming out…you got to cut me and get it out…’

Maddox glares at the top of the baby’s skull. There is no way he can cut her. What if he cuts the baby? What if she dies? He thinks hard, desperate and worried and not knowing what to do. His hand goes for the radio. His thumb feels the switch under his shirt. They’ll kill him. He knows they will. That they will help is without doubt but that they will execute him is also without doubt. Millions are dead. Millions more will die. What difference does one more make?

The room lights to something beyond the spectrum of daylight. A flash of lightening that sears the image of every single detail of the room into his mind. It makes the darkness deeper. A second later the windows rattle in the frames as the thunder rolls and booms across the sky. Static electricity seems to grow in the room. The air becomes heavier and charged. He has a knife. He can cut her. He has a radio. He can call for help.