Undead UK (Book 1): Remember Me Dead

by Rob Lopez

  “Tough deal, then.”

  “Not really. I only did the jobs I wanted to do, and got paid well for it. By that stage I was thinking of retirement, not glory. Testosterone doesn’t last forever.”

  Zak rose to his feet and began a series of slow motion Tai Chi movements, with the stick extended like a sword. “You did well to get here,” he said, his eyes closed in serenity. “We were in contact with a couple of groups, and they just went off the air and disappeared. You’re the first to make it in.” The wooden sword swished in an arc, Zak stepping forward suddenly to deliver a simulated kill. “You shouldn’t feel bad about yourself.”

  Breht watched him crouch down, one leg outstretched, sword held above his head. “I don’t recall saying I did.”

  Zak shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “No,” he agreed. “You didn’t.”

  Breht continued to watch him, baffled but curious.

  Zak balanced on one foot, stretching his body out slowly and steadily, as if he was planted firmly in the soil. “You brought three good rifles with you.” Zak froze, holding himself in a rigid pose. “That’s useful.”

  “Used up our ammo getting here,” said Breht. “Not very useful now.”

  Zak inclined his head, like a bird. “That would be true. Except that I happen to have a tin box of NATO ammo. Don’t ask me how I got it, but it was useless without the hardware. Until now.” Zak lowered himself into a cross-legged pose again, breathing out. He fixed one eye on Breht. “Providence, my old son. Your guns and my ammo were destined to meet.”

  Breht couldn’t tell whether he was serious or not.

  “So,” said Zak. “Are you ready to quit, or have you got some fight left in you?”

  Breht stared at him.

  “Undecided, then,” said Zak. “Okay. Let me show you round the place.”

  14

  The castle occupied a commanding position by the river, with a nearby beach and marina. Mooring buoys lay unattended on the mud flats, the boats now missing – no doubt used to escape the catastrophe. A mile down, the river, bordered by hills, opened out onto the sea. The old town walls, like the castle, were intact, completely encircling the white painted houses, civic buildings and cobbled streets. Beyond the walls, modern suburban estates faded out into rolling farmland and clustered woods, rising towards the peaks that stretched as far as Snowdonia and beyond.

  “It’s the best defensive position around,” said Zak, as they walked the crumbling battlements. “As soon as this all started, I loaded up a Land Rover and trailer and came straight here. I’ve got a place up in the hills, and I thought I’d be okay during the plague – I kept myself pretty much to myself, and I had supplies – but once the dead started to get the munchies, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hole up there on my own. It wasn’t defensible. So I came here. It’s the perfect location.”

  Breht looked across at the mud flats in the middle of the river. There appeared to be people standing there, enjoying the sun. Then he realised they were zombies stuck in mud up to their knees and unable to move. “How long have they been there?” he asked.

  Zak looked across. “Oh, them. A few days I think. Must have tried to cross, but now they’re there permanently. They disappear under the water at high tide, then emerge at low tide, sunk a little deeper. Tempted to use them for target practice, but they’re not going anywhere. No point wasting bullets.”

  The stuck zombies swayed as they tried to walk, unable to comprehend why they weren’t going anywhere.

  Breht thought it amazing that those dumb, uncomprehending beings had now taken over the world. It didn’t matter how stuck they were, or how stupid they were. They weren’t going to die, they weren’t going to fade away, they didn’t need to breathe or eat, nor worry about the heat or the cold or the rain. The seasons meant nothing to them. Nothing meant nothing to them. They were better equipped to survive than the pitifully few humans who were hiding from them. Time itself meant nothing to the undead, yet it meant everything to the survivors. In this temporary sanctuary – and Breht saw it only as a brief respite from the horrors – it wasn’t clear how much time they had left. Zak, however, looked upbeat. Maybe he really had been the special forces soldier he claimed to be – and Breht wasn’t sure, as he’d encountered more than his fair share of pretenders – but if so, it might explain his demeanour. If he was an adrenaline junkie, he probably relished the new challenge. Maybe he’d got bored of retirement already.

  “It’s not the end, you know,” said Zak.

  Breht looked up and saw Zak studying him, looking right through him.

  “Until the last of us is gone, that is,” he added with a smile. “But that’s not guaranteed, and I don’t see why we should go gently into the night, if you know what I mean. We can still give them a run for their money, right?”

  Breht shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “Wrong attitude. We can do more than that. The fightback starts here. Take a look out there.”

  Breht looked. The dead shuffled through the streets like disconsolate tourists.

  “This is a walled town,” said Zak. “If we can clear it out and find a way to block the gates, it’s ours. We’ve got access to the sea, and there’s other castles and potential sanctuaries along the Welsh coast where maybe other communities are holding out. People survive in worse places around the world – I know, I’ve seen them. We can trade and, bit by bit, reclaim the land. The undead don’t have a strategy. They can’t coordinate a response to what we do. Look at them, they don’t care. They might seem scary when there’s a lot of them, but if you look closely, you’ll see they’re vulnerable to concerted action. They don’t think. They don’t learn. They don’t breed. As apex hunters, they’re already obsolete. Dinosaurs ruled the earth for millions of years. I don’t think these guys are going to last anywhere near as long.”

  Breht stared, wondering how to break the news to him about how long humans were going to last. The evidence of a devastated civilisation lay all around them.

  Zak read his thoughts again. “When Rome fell,” he said, waving a finger to emphasise his point, “they thought the world had ended. But it hadn’t.” Zak breathed in the sea air, savouring it. “They wrote about the apocalypse, and religious freaks have been quoting it from the bible ever since, but their pessimism didn’t change what happened in the centuries after. So, we’ve fallen again. Okay. But we can get up again. It was never going to be an easy ride.”

  Breht’s grasp of history ended about the same time his history teacher, Mrs Wright, bawled him out for handing in half a page for a five page essay. Once the fun had been sucked out of it, he lost interest and dropped the subject at the first opportunity. Most lessons seemed to focus solely on Hitler, anyway, and he’d already seen the movie, so he didn’t think there was anything else worth knowing.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  “To buck you up,” said Zak. “Obvious, really.”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  Zak looked amused. “Why not?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Thought that’d be obvious, too.”

  “Well, it’s not.”

  Zak studied him. “You really want to be awkward, don’t you? You think this is a good time to retreat into your bubble? You going to keep beating yourself up over that tribunal, even though it doesn’t matter anymore?”

  “That’s personal.”

  “Not anymore it isn’t. I heard the story. And for your information, I followed that case. You fell for one of your recruits and it turned out he was just a loser fishing for compensation. It wasn’t personal. Just a bad call. It happens. Nobody’s perfect.”

  “I’m still not clear on what you want from me.”

  “Christ, you’re the paranoid one, aren’t you? We’re in a unique situation, here. You might have been a pen pusher and a blanket stacker before this, but now you’re in a war zone, and you successfully led a squad and escorted civilians to safety. And don’t
even start with that crap about how you lost men. I’ve lost men too. It’s what happens when you’re in command. Deal with it. I need a lieutenant to help me out, and I’m promoting you to the job.”

  “You want to talk to Cobb, then. I quit, remember?”

  “Well, unquit.”

  Breht turned away. “It’s not my problem anymore.”

  Zak watched him walk off. “You’re wrong,” he called. “We’re all in it up to our necks, and you’ve got nowhere to go. You’ll see.”

  *

  The train sat, expectant and ready to go. That’s how it seemed to Breht, as he looked down upon it from the high sniper tower. The shuffling zombies around it looked small, but through a telescopic sight, they would have been easy targets. An experienced sniper would have considered it a close range shot.

  Even for a moving target, he wouldn’t have had to lead them much.

  Breht decided that Zak’s shooting wasn’t so miraculous after all. At best, he’d credit him with quick reactions.

  Harris’s body remained where Breht had left it. The undead didn’t eat the dead once they were cold. Only the squabbling crows and seagulls did. Breht didn’t feel much emotion looking at the body, and he didn’t feel as much guilt as he thought he should. Instead, he found himself measuring the distance from the base of the wall to the train, and calculating whether he could make it to the train and get it moving again before the undead overwhelmed him.

  He couldn’t think of any sanctuary he particularly wanted to get to – and certainly not the mythical communities Zak spoke of – he just didn’t want this to be the place where he died. Further out, perhaps, alone in the hills. Then he could pull the trigger and end it all. But not here.

  The castle already felt claustrophobic, and he yearned to get out into the open space. Some place where people wouldn’t ask him stupid questions or make demands. He was done with that.

  Boots crunched on the stone steps behind him. He thought it might be Zak again, but it turned out to be Cobb who came to stand by his side.

  “You okay?” asked Cobb.

  “Yeah.”

  Together they looked down at what remained of Harris.

  “Think maybe we should retrieve the body?” said Cobb.

  “I don’t know.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “So what do you reckon?”

  “I told you. I don’t know.”

  “No, I mean about this place.”

  “Oh. It’s okay, I suppose.”

  Cobb nodded. “It’s a pretty amazing place. The perfect set-up. If you think about it, it’s a good job we’ve been a warlike nation, because we’ve got all these places scattered around the country, ready-made for the apocalypse. I like it.”

  Breht turned to him, a little surprised. In contrast to his own mood, Cobb seemed positively enthused. He decided to break the news to him. “I’ve recommended you to Zak to be his second-in-command.”

  “Oh?”

  “Just wanted to let you know. Zak might talk to you about it.”

  “I just spoke to him. He never mentioned a thing.”

  “Hadn’t he? Well, I told him anyway. Just thought I’d let you know.”

  “And what about you?”

  Breht glanced longingly at the train. “I’m not interested.”

  “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”

  Breht turned to him. Cobb was studying him intensely. “I don’t know.”

  “Things must be pretty bad if you’re thinking of going it alone. Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay.”

  Breht thought for a moment. “What do you think of Zak?”

  “Not sure yet. You?”

  “He’s a bit intense.”

  Cobb paused. “He’s something of a fanatic, I think. Very sure of himself. But that’s not a bad thing, right?”

  “I don’t know. Depends whether you’re into that.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  Breht didn’t trust anyone. “It doesn’t matter. We’re here and that’s that.”

  “So you’re not leaving?”

  “I haven’t made my mind up yet. Kind of screwed up at the moment.”

  “I understand. Anytime you want to talk about it, you know where I am.”

  “Okay.”

  “Zak wants us to go out on a foraging expedition tomorrow, pick up some supplies and stuff. Could be a chance to see what he’s really like.”

  “I suppose.”

  Cobb slapped his arm. “It’ll be good. Don’t worry about it. As long as we stick together, we’ll be fine.”

  He left, and Breht leaned on the wall, frowning. Staring at the train, he found himself thinking about Zak.

  Was he really what he seemed to be? And if not, should Breht be worried?

  15

  Breht packed his bag carefully. It was a hiker’s backpack with a metal frame, hip belt and a multitude of pockets. Into it he crammed his blanket, bivouac sack, mess tin, cotton wool tinder and flint, water bottles, wrapped food, some clothing, a compass and a pocket knife. On top of it all went a bundle of nylon climbing rope. In the side pockets he carried the remnants of a first aid kit, some out-of-date drugs and a tourniquet. Strapped to the outside was an ice axe, his catapult and, hanging from the frame, a spare pair of socks that he was still trying to dry.

  “You’re leaving now, then?” said William.

  It was self-evident, so Breht didn’t bother to answer. Hefting the pack on, he tightened the straps and hip belt and slung his Katana between the pack and the frame, so that the handle was in easy reach by his shoulder. The sawn-off shotgun came with a custom made holster, which Breht looped onto the belt at his waist.

  “Good luck, I suppose,” added William meekly.

  “Not so difficult to see me go, is it, now that you know I’m gay?”

  William shrugged slightly, not meeting his gaze. “Well, it’s easier for my daughter.”

  “I bet.” Breht offered his hand. “It’s goodbye then. Thanks for letting me stay the night.”

  William took the hand and gave it a limp shake. “Not a problem,” he said.

  Some of the community waited nearby, their silence a formal farewell, but most of the others stayed within their areas, washing, talking and occasionally glancing across. To them, he was dead already. Anyone who went outside was. The younger children stared at him, their new toys clutched to their chest, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. Breht gave them a wave and walked to the door.

  “Breht,” said William suddenly. “Look... I know it’s a long shot, but... if it turns out that the community at the castle is not a myth, could you, uhm, find a way to let us know?”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Breht. “But you’re probably right. It’s going to be a very long shot.”

  The door opened to the cemetery-cum-vegetable garden. Breht pulled the ice axe from its loop and put his hand through the thong on the handle, looking out. It was all clear.

  William had another change of mind. “Still no way I can convince you to stay?”

  “No.”

  “Very well, then,” said William with a sigh. “I wish you the best of luck.”

  “Thanks. You too.”

  Stepping over the threshold, Breht paused, glancing left and right, then, instead of running, he began a slow motion walk, pressing each foot gently to the ground, keeping his arm and head movements to a minimum. Behind him the door slammed shut, a key turning in the lock.

  No way back, now. But at least the rain had stopped.

  When he was younger, his grandfather had taken him rabbit shooting with an air rifle. With such a limited range, he had to get close before he could even take a shot, and his grandfather had taught him the art of the slow stalk, and the reason why. Unlike humans, rabbits were unable to focus their vision, relying instead on scent, hearing and perceived movement. For them, the world was a blur, and Breht discovered that, provided he kept his
movements glacial, and didn’t silhouette himself against the sky, he could cross a field in full view of a rabbit while it was still trying to work out whether something really had moved in the ephemeral mush of colours and tones. Provided Breht didn’t contrast himself too much with his surroundings, and until he got to within about thirty yards, the rabbit couldn’t actually see him. He learned sometimes that, if he froze for long enough, a suspicious rabbit would relax and resume its feeding, even though he was in plain view. Because to a rabbit, there was no such thing as plain view.

  Breht figured that, with their decayed eyeballs, the undead suffered from the same problem.

  It was just that he hadn’t tested the theory too often. And moving with light footsteps at a glacial pace, with a heavy pack, wasn’t that easy.

  Through the iron gates of the cemetery, he could see some of the undead shuffling along on the other side of the road, besides the stone balustrade that bordered the park. None of them looked his way.

  If he shuffled like they did, would they be able to tell he wasn’t one of them? Breht hadn’t been willing to test that theory, but as he inched along in slow increments, he realised his movements were not that different to theirs. Provided he was downwind and not too close, the theory might well hold. It would certainly explain why the zombies ignored each other.

  Breht made it halfway across the cemetery when he noticed another shuffling figure, walking along the middle of the road.

  It was Martin, the super agile zombie who’d charged him the day before. Breht froze, waiting for him to pass out of sight, but Martin stopped too. Seconds passed, and Breht wondered what Martin would be able to tell him about the doomed foray he’d made into the town centre, if only he could talk. His clothes were torn, and flesh had been torn from his ribs, exposing bones and red muscle. But Breht noticed something else too: a bloom of dried blood on his shirt in a place that had not been ripped open. A wound that had not been caused by jagged fingernails or the biting of diseased teeth.