Zombie Castle Series (Book 4): ZC Four

by Harris, Chris

  Chris had suggested we block any entrance we didn’t need to use with either bricks or blocks as a permanent fix. The vehicles we were using at the current time could only be a temporary solution and if bricks or blocks were laid correctly, they’d be just as strong as the rest of the ancient walls. We’d agreed that while others were doing the final sweep of the castle, he would measure up and work out what was required to do the job. There’d be a builders’ merchant somewhere in Warwick where we would be able to find all he’d need; to that end, we were on the lookout for a telephone directory or yellow pages so we could locate the nearest one and save time driving around finding it.

  My first task would be to find the winch room to try and close the portcullis on the barbican entrance. I remembered from our previous visit it seemed very sturdy. Once we’d closed it, we would be able to see if anything else was needed to strengthen or improve it for our purpose.

  As the light strengthened in the growing dawn, people started to stir. Thankfully, the inner courtyard had remained clear so at least our initial defences had worked. I was sure by the end of the day they’d be even better.

  To save us splitting into multiple groups, I asked Chris to join me and the few I’d enlisted to help me with the portcullis. It wouldn’t take him long to estimate how many bricks or blocks he’d need to do the work, and it would mean we could stay together and we wouldn’t need so many people to guard us; in turn, that would free up more to recheck the castle more quickly.

  Once we’d had a few cups of tea and breakfast, we got ready to venture out.

  “Shit!” was all I needed to say to get everyone alert as we approached the van that was blocking the largest ‘gap’ in the castle’s walls.

  The unmistakable groaning sound of zombies could be heard beyond it. Cautiously approaching the van, I looked through the mesh-covered passenger window. Beyond the other side of the van I could see zombies staggering past. Holding my fingers up to my lips to keep everyone quiet, I pointed to Shawn and indicated for him to get the others, who’d already begun their search of the castle. Nodding, he turned and ran to find them. I winced at the metallic noises his armour made as he moved.

  In no time at all he’d returned and I waved for them to be quiet as they approached. Woody took a quick look through the van window and summed it up in one word, as I had.

  “Shit!” He gave a rueful shrug as he looked at us all. “Time to get to work again, folks.” He looked at Eddy. “How do you want to do this, mate?”

  “Let’s have a look from the walls and work out how many we’re dealing with first. There doesn’t seem to be masses of them out there, but they’re getting in from somewhere.”

  Steps led up to the ramparts next to the arch, so trying to keep as quiet as possible, everyone walked up the ancient stone steps. Looking more like tourists, we all leant over the wall and looked down. Around forty zombies were milling around the grassed area below us and more were approaching, staggering along in single file from where I knew the perimeter fence to be.

  Stating the obvious, I said. “There must be a hole in the fence up there somewhere. I suppose all the noise we made arriving yesterday and then using drills to make the frame to block up the gateway attracted them from the town.”

  Having seen enough, Eddy got our attention and we gathered around him. “Let’s play this safe. If we get some of those silenced .22 rifles we have, we can get most of them from up here. Then Simon can do a sweep of the grounds in the Defender, getting any we miss.” He turned and looked at Shane. “Shane, lad, can you go and get some of those .22s, please?”

  He nodded and we watched him descend the staircase and run across the courtyard and emerge a few minutes later from the main building, walking slightly more awkwardly this time as he was encumbered with rifles slung over both shoulders. Woody and Eddy both helped him as he arrived out of breath back on the ramparts and took the guns from him.

  “Thanks, mate,” Woody told him and then held the guns out. “Let’s use this as another training ex. Who hasn’t used these before? Now’s as good a time as any and it’ll also be a good way of checking if they’re sighted correctly.”

  I’d used .22s before as it was the first rifle I’d got from the farmhouse what seemed weeks before on the moors, but which was in reality only days ago. We’d got many more when we cleared the gun shop where we found Shane. But most of the training and experience everyone else had was with the military rifles we’d scavenged from Bickley barracks. These provided a higher rate of fire and heavier calibre bullets which, when firing from the sides of vehicles or when facing a pack of them on foot, had proved to be the most effective to use, along with the shotguns.

  The .22s, we knew, would make an excellent short-to-medium-range sniper rifle and we had many thousands of the small, lightweight bullets for them and knew we could get many thousands more, because they were a popular, if not the most popular, rifle bullet available from gun shops across the UK.

  After a few minutes getting the ones who said they wanted to practise with them into position, the rest of us lined the walls and leant against them. We peered down at the zombies below us, again looking more like the tourists who on a normal day would be lining the walls and admiring the views from the elevated position the walls offered, and not doing as we were getting ready to; watching the killing of yet more of the undead.

  The pinging of the brass cartridges as they were ejected from the guns was louder than the muted popping of them firing. Woody, Eddy and Shane helped everyone, giving tips and advice as they familiarised themselves with the firearms. From the elevated firing position, the moving heads of the zombies provided a tantalising but small target, which initially most found hard to hit. Frustration was kept at bay as their instructors all explained that shooting at an angle down from height was a difficult skill to learn. The small bullets also made it difficult to mark the fall of shot. The zombies were staggering as they shambled along, so a hit from a bullet was difficult to distinguish as they only fell to the floor when the subsonic bullet entered their skulls and destroyed the brain.

  But with encouragement from the watchers and help from the instructors, their accuracy improved and slowly the ones lying still on the ground began to outnumber the ones standing, their heads turning and their teeth gnashing together as they searched out their next victim until a bullet destroyed their brain.

  Eventually, Woody called out for everyone to stop firing. All those in effective range had been re-killed and it was now clear in front of the gates.

  “Okay, guys,” he called out cheerfully. “Well done, everyone. That’ll do for now. We still have to check out the inside of the castle one more time, so could four of you stay up here and continue getting any that keep appearing? The rest of us will carry on and do that.”

  The four volunteers began reloading magazines from open boxes of bullets and then rested their weapons on the ramparts, ready for use, as the rest of us checked our own weapon and listened to Woody’s and Eddy’s instructions about how they were going to conduct the sweep.

  As initially intended, we would start by trying to lower the portcullis to seal the barbican entrance up completely and then we would check every room again, marking every door this time with chalk to avoid any room being missed. We were to follow the same plan as yesterday and stay together as one group. With the numbers we had, it enabled us to leapfrog each other and check more than one room at a time.

  The four sharpshooters were reminded to keep checking the ramparts and the area around them, just in case any appeared unexpectedly from somewhere we’d missed on our previous search, potentially catching them unawares when their attention was fixed beyond the walls.

  Chapter Five

  On entering the cool, shaded, tunnel-like entrance of the barbican, we could see a few zombies had crossed the stone bridge that crossed the moat and were pushing against my car that I’d jammed into the narrow passageway yesterday, blocking it completely. They couldn’t get near
us, but it also meant we couldn’t get to them easily.

  I turned to Woody. “What are we going to do about that lot?” I asked quietly, so as not to attract their attention while waving my arms towards them. “I don’t think we can see or get to them from the walls.”

  He stared at them and then looked at the rest of us with a calculating look on his face.

  “We could climb onto your car and shoot them.” I nodded and began to reach for my rifle. “But also, your car is right under the portcullis we want to lower, so why don’t we kill the proverbial two birds with one stone? There aren’t too many of them, so if you climb in and pull your car forward, the rest of us will go and deal with them. If you pull back and block the entrance again and then act as rear gunner if anything goes wrong, we should have them dealt with in no time at all.”

  His eyes glanced at everyone else who was crowding around listening to his low whispering voice. Not seeing any disagreement and nodding in reply to the general gripping of weapons and looks of determination he received as an answer, he continued.

  “Okay then, guys and gals. Usual stuff. Let the knights lead the way and we’ll provide cover and support. Any questions?”

  Again no one spoke up so as I climbed into my Volvo, he led the rest back into the courtyard. Standing on the bonnet of my car, I leaned in and placed my rifle on the passenger seat before clambering in. Retrieving the keys from where I’d stashed them behind the sun visor, I glanced unconcernedly at the few zombies ineffectually pawing at the mesh that covered the rear window of the car and turned the ignition.

  In the bright sunlight ahead, I could see the others looking in my direction, so with a thumbs-up to tell them to get ready, I put the car in drive and depressed the accelerator. The car was wedged in tightly, so I had to apply more power before, with a screech of protesting metal, I freed it and pulled forward.

  I stopped to leave a gap large enough, and the knights led the group at a jog as they advanced into the fray once more. Pulling back to block the entrance again, I stood on my seat and grabbing my rifle, raised it ready.

  The knights had linked shields and, as one, were slowly advancing through the barbican. If a film crew had been present, it could have been mistaken for the shooting of a scene from a historical film or even a flashback in time. The backdrop of the ancient barbican entrance and knights in full armour looked so realistic.

  From my elevated position I could see axes and swords rising and falling as without missing a step, they ploughed through the undead. Standing, I once again thought how calm I felt, and by the way everyone was acting, they looked to be feeling it, too. Yes, they were facing up to and killing more former human beings, but we knew that in small numbers, if no one messed up, they were relatively easy to deal with, given the weapons we had.

  Woody and Eddy both kept continually telling us about how complacency would kill you and they were correct. We only had one chance to get it right and the cost of failure would be someone in the group paying the ultimate price. I thought, though, that we all took it as a compliment that they needed to keep telling us, but as I stood watching my friends killing more of them, not at one point did I feel anxious. The few they were facing were nothing to what they had faced before and most likely would do again.

  Now we were at our destination, we were in a much better position. We could more easily pick the fights we could win, and if not, we could retreat behind the walls and either deal with the threat or wait it out.

  Woody shouting to me broke me from my wandering thoughts.

  “All clear, pal. We’ll hold the gate if you want to find the portcullis control thingy.”

  Smiling at his description, I grabbed the ladder attached to the front of the car and wrestled it into position so I could climb down the rear of it and then walked into the passageway. A small ancient looking wooden door set into the stonework of the passageway caught my eye. It had a modern lock set into its wide oak boards. Logically, it would be the place to house the entrance to the winding gear, because in the past it would have been close enough to enable the guards at the gate to seal the castle quickly in times of trouble.

  Finding the door locked when I tried it, I shouted for some help to open it. Geoff, his mace over his shoulder, turned from the group guarding the entrance and made his way over to me. He took one look at the door, told me to stand clear and aimed a powerful swing at the lock. The door rattled in its frame and splintered where he’d hit it, but the lock held.

  He looked at me, shrugged, and holding his mace out for me to take, took a few paces back before running at it and smashing his mail clad shoulder against the stubborn door.

  Not being able to help myself, I had to laugh as he bounced off it and ended up in a pile on the floor, emitting a string of curses as he tried to decide what hurt more, his pride or his shoulder. The rattling noise of his armour meeting the hard, stone floor attracted the attention of his friends, who all offered a few words of sympathy and support.

  Okay, no they didn’t, they all hooted with laughter and shouted sarcastic comments.

  Ian lumbered up with a big grin on his face and held out a hand to help his struggling friend to his feet. “Care to let a real man have a go?” he said as he handed me his axe.

  Weighted down with both a heavy mace and now a huge axe, I had to rest both on the ground quickly before I dropped them.

  Ian theatrically studied the door, tutting at the damage Geoff had caused before pulling a knife from a sheath in his belt and inserting it in between the door and frame. He gave a small push, the lock clicked, and the door swung open. Keeping a straight face, he sheathed his knife and took his axe from me before looking at an open-mouthed Geoff and adopting an atrocious Chinese accent, said,

  “As Sun Tzu say. Power of man not come from muscle, but from strength of brain.” He then walked jauntily back down to the ones guarding the entrance.

  Geoff looked at his receding back, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Come on, mate,” I said, slapping him on his back. “Let’s check the room’s clear. It might not even be the right one after all.”

  Geoff, all business again, raised his mace and stepped towards the open door, stooping slightly as he poked his large frame into the small opening. “It’s the one,” he called back, his voice echoing slightly as he stepped inside. “And it’s clear.”

  I followed him into the narrow stone passage that led to a small circular room illuminated by the light streaming through the arrow slits set into its walls. The room contained the winding gear for the portcullis. Surprised at the simplicity of it, I studied it for a short while. A rope that stretched to the ceiling and disappeared through a small hole was attached around a small drum with a handle that was bolted to the floor. Another rope, which I assumed was the other end of the one that went through the ceiling, hung down and had a large lead weight attached to it that hung above a small hole in the floor. I surmised the lead weight was the counterbalance, designed to take the weight of the portcullis and make it easier to operate. It was an incredibly simple design, but cleverly conceived, nonetheless.

  I remarked to Geoff, who was standing next to me, also inspecting the winding gear, “Look at it, it’s genius. Those old boys certainly knew what they were doing. Come on then, let’s try it out.”

  I took hold of the handle and turned it. The rope tightened, but after half a turn it stopped moving. Putting more weight on it, I leant on the handle more, but it still didn’t move.

  “Hang on a bit,” Geoff said and stepped forward, putting his mace down. “I think that length of timber is stopping it. Wind back on the rope a bit, mate and I’ll try and move it.”

  Seeing what he was indicating, I nodded and reversed the direction I was winding. The rope tightened again, and Geoff reached for the length of timber. After fiddling with it for a few seconds, he noticed a pin that was holding it in place, removed it and the timber moved easily. Immediately, I felt weight on the winding mechanism and held the han
dle tightly.

  “Geoff, mate,” I said, “go and tell ’em outside that the portcullis should be closing now and to get the right side of it.”

  I waited, holding the handle, until Geoff walked down the short passage and called out of the door for those outside to take care.

  Walking back down the passage, he gave me the thumbs-up and I turned the handle. A low scraping sound and slight knocking coming through the handle told me something was happening. The counterweight lifted from its position and slowly rose to the ceiling, until with a slight thud, the weight went off the mechanism.

  Eddy poked his head through the door and called, “Good work, lads, it’s down.”

  Smiling with satisfaction, I walked down the passageway and joined the others in the tunnel that led through the barbican. The portcullis was down. Approaching it, I grabbed one of the thick timber lattices that made up the huge wooden construction and shook it. The portcullis would easily, as it was originally designed to do, provide a second line of defence for the castle’s main gate.

  If any attacker had broken through the raised drawbridge, which sadly was no longer there, they would have to face the spears and arrows of the defenders as they stood behind it.

  Chris came and stood next to me and he, too, grabbed the woodwork and gave it a tug. “Solid as a rock, mate,” he said with a smile, admiring the hundreds-of-years-old structure. “Not much to do here. Maybe just covering it with boards to stop anything seeing in would help.” He pointed across the bridge which spanned the deep moat. “Maybe if we build a gate or something at the end of the bridge it’ll stop anything getting close to it, but it’ll do for now.”

  “Good idea,” I said slapping him on the back. “Keep those ideas coming. Just keep your notepad out, writing down what we need. When we get the perimeter outside secure, then fortifying this place will be top of the to-do list, I’m sure.”