The Infected Chronicles (Book 1): Origin

by Fessey, Andie

  Is it as simple as this? How have I missed this notion?

  Amidst the chaos of this nightmare, Godfrey deduced it understandable they overlooked this fact, more concerned with placing shot into them, than to notice which exact shots caused these beasts to cease standing.

  Glancing around at his men stationed on the walls, he nodded at Peter.

  Peter ran as fast as his tired limbs could take him.

  “The heads!” he shouted, to the two men atop of the first wall he reached, “fire at their heads!”

  Nodding at him, they waved their hands in understanding.

  Raising their muskets to their shoulders, they took aim into the mass of bodies below them.

  Staring into the huge throng, they were unable to discern where one body stopped and another body began, appearing as a wave of one being of flesh of rags, bloodied arms outstretching to them.

  One of the men aimed down his musket, sense overtaking his moral reasoning regarding the creatures below and fired.

  It took a moment for the smoke to clear, then another moment to discern if his shot was true, but yes, the beast now lay dead.

  The only reason it stood erect, the fact it was held up by the mass of bodies surrounding it.

  His companion, seeing the results of the shot he took, followed suit, aiming at the exposed flesh of a bearded man’s head.

  He watched as his shot hit his target in the centre of a balding skull, blood and fragments of brain and skull flying into the air, its arms lowering as it became carried along helpless by the mass, surrounding its dead shell.

  Turning, they called to Peter to confirm this. Nodding, he sprinted to the men on the other walls, conveying this vital information.

  By the time he returned to Godfrey and the other men gathered at the gate, they also adopted this.

  Godfrey nodded at him solemnly and Peter picked up a musket, aiming it into the snarling face of an old woman, pressed against the bars of the gate.

  “God rest your poor soul,” he said, firing his musket.

  Hannah entered the larder room with two boys, fetching loaves of bread to take to the gathering of women and children in the great hall. Two of the older girls entering the kitchen earlier at her request, were busily taking water back and forth in jugs to the throng of people.

  Locating several cakes on a shelf, destined for the family’s dinner the next evening, she stopped one of the girls, instructing her to take them to her Ladyship.

  Looking around the larder, she knew the men would require feeding after they dealt with the horror occurring outside.

  Noticing a piece of triangular wood on the floor, she picked it up, wedging it under the large heavy door to keep it ajar.

  Make it easier to save opening and closing it.

  She returned to where Mathew sat, slumped on his seat. His face, as pale as the whitest linen she ever laundered, lay crisscrossed dark lines of veins covering his face.

  Gently, she lifted the wrap of clothes arranged upon his wound. Crimson lines of blood seeped from the wound, surrounded by a black fluid, the wound red, angry and surrounded by flesh a pale shade of waxen white.

  Removing the cloth from his forehead, she placed a hand upon it.

  It felt feverishly hot earlier, yet now felt as cold as ice.

  The cold water must have worked.

  Placing the cloth to one side, she placed a hand on his shoulder, before leaving the kitchen.

  Behind the pile of sacks in the larder, Hugh crouched, shaking.

  When the door opened, he was certain he was discovered and expected to be dragged from there, with the lightest to expect as punishment, would be a harsh, severe beating for running off.

  Glancing around the larder, he sought to locate a better place he could hide, lest being discovered. The light shining through the open doorway gave the room enough luminosity to see another pile of cloth sacks, underneath the bottom of one of the large shelves.

  I could fit behind them with ease.

  Though hearing Hannah leaving the kitchen and closing the door behind her, he found himself too scared to make for the other hiding place, his legs unwilling to move.

  Remaining in the same position, shaking, the time he spent crouching there drifted slowly by.

  The march to the estate longer than he wished, Jonathan instructed the men on foot to catch up when they could, ordering the men on horseback to follow him.

  Breaking his horse into full canter, he rode swiftly followed by a couple of dozen other riders.

  Shortly afterwards, they passed through a small expanse of woods and grove, turning onto the long lane leading to the estate.

  As the estate came into view, Jonathan brought his horse to a sudden stop, pulling harshly on its reins, as he took in the hellish scene befallen his eyes.

  Underneath the night sky, filled with a canopy of stars and a luminous moon, he saw the walls of the estate, surrounded by a sea of moving blackness.

  From the top of the walls came the unmistakable flashes of musket fire.

  Breaking from his trance, he urged his horse forward closely followed by Giles and the other riders.

  Though his body and mind wracked with fear, at some point Hugh dropped into a slight slumber, finding himself awakened, by not only the feeling of cold, but also by the sound of movement from the kitchen.

  Has Hannah returned?

  He listened intently for several long minutes, only hearing groaning, as if somebody suffered in discomfort.

  They brought that man in earlier, it must be him.

  He felt angry at himself for falling asleep, when he could so easily have been discovered.

  If Hannah returns to the pantry again, I will surely be caught.

  Softly he made his way to the doorway, limbs aching from his cramped position.

  Peering around the open doorway, he could only see the one figure in the kitchen.

  The groaning grew louder.

  Transfixed, he stood in the shaft of light cast through the kitchen doorway into the larder.

  In the kitchen, he saw the seated figure of Mathew leant over, his head almost on his knees.

  The figure of Mathew, slowly rose until he stood upright, facing forward.

  His feet and legs unsteady, he rocked slightly.

  Hearing the moaning coming from him, Hugh wondered what the clicking noise was, when he slipped, knocking a large jug from the shelf behind him.

  Time slowed, as he turned his head, watching the stone jug fall to the floor. It briefly crossed his mind to grab it to stop its descent, but he left it too late, the heavy jug striking the stone floor with a loud crack and splitting open. Its contents of thick molasses spilt across the floor, forming a dark pool, expanding with pieces of the broken jar floating as a flotilla of ships.

  Mathew slowly turned his head to him.

  Hugh let out a gasp as he saw his eyes.

  From this distance, they appeared completely black, but as the figure walked closer to the larder, he could see they were the colour of blood.

  Fear snaked throughout him, realising the clicking sound originated from Mathew’s teeth, grinding together.

  Mathew now stood in the doorway, the light of the kitchen causing him to cast a long shadow across the floor to where Hugh stood weeping.

  He stepped into the room and Hugh he could hear the gurgling, rattling noise emanating from his mouth.

  Breaking from his trance, he ran to the far side of the room, Mathew slowly walking to him, his gait slow and shuffling, dragging each leg along the floor.

  Looking around the room for something to defend himself with, all his eyes fell upon were sacks, jugs and bowls.

  The distance between them lessened now, as Mathew moved slowly and purposefully to him.

  With only a mere yard or between them, Mathew raised his arms to him, his face an ashen white, covered with protruding thick, dark veins, his mouth a snarl, bloodless lips drawn over rows of teeth, grinding together constantly, as black liqui
d disgorged from in-between his lips.

  Scrambling to one side and grabbing a sack of flour from a pile nearby, he pushed it in front of the approaching figure.

  Stumbling over the sack, Mathew remained upright, knocking into the wall.

  Hugh took this opportunity to run through the open doorway into the kitchen.

  Hearing the movements and moaning from within the larder, he made his way quickly to the rear door to make good his escape. Reaching out for the handle, he found it would not open, desperately shaking at it before realising it stood locked, as the moaning from the larder became louder.

  Looking around the kitchen he could see no other alternative, except for one.

  Hurrying across the room, his legs uncontrollably shaking, he reached the door leading to the great hall and pulled it open.

  “It’s no use my lord,” Peter cried, “there are far too many of them.”

  Godfrey knew exactly what he meant, the gateway now awash with bodies, pushed so hard and compact against the metal, it appeared they were one being, a mass of torn, bloodied flesh and rags.

  The air around them filled with the thick, acrid smoke from their muskets.

  Suddenly, there sounded a loud crack, piercing the air even over the incessant sounds of the groans, as the gate bent inwards as one of the hinges came loose, a piece of masonry ricocheting at them.

  “Push the cart to the gate!” Godfrey instructed, the men positioning against the cart, pushing it against the broken gate, now bending precariously into the courtyard.

  The weight of the throng of the bodies against the gate pushed the cart backwards, its rear wheels rising from the ground, gate weighed against its front end.

  “Push!” Peter cried, as more men came forward to assist.

  Four of the gathered men atop of the wall, witnessing the events unfurling at the gate ran to assist.

  As they drew nearer, one of the men lost his footing, tripping and with arms flailing, hands grabbing at open air as he fell, screaming into the crowd below.

  Upon hearing his screams, his companion turned quickly, staring into the sea of bodies below.

  He fell onto several of the creatures, breaking his fall and preventing him from crashing head first into the ground beneath their feet.

  At least, then, his death would have been a swift one.

  The creatures closest to him and the ones breaking his fall, wasted no time in grabbing at him with bloodied, outstretched hands.

  His pitiful screams sounded inhuman as they clawed at him, his whole body erupting in a symphony of agony as his body became ravaged.

  Pulling at his right arm, two of the creatures bit deeply into his flesh, until it felt it was to be torn asunder from his body.

  Most of his right ear became torn off by the broken teeth of a girl no older than six, blood spraying as a fountain over her face from the wound.

  He felt the ankle in his left leg twist and snap as strong hands twisted at his foot, wrenching it clear from his leg.

  Broken and jagged nails tore at his tunic, before raking at his abdomen, hands pulling the flesh apart, reaching deep inside to grab and pull out the slippery coils of his intestines.

  The last sight his eyes would see and his tortured mind would comprehend, his companion high above on the wall, aiming at musket at him.

  The musket shot hit him square in the centre of his forehead and a void of blackness mercifully followed.

  His companion picked up the dropped musket and fired again, this time hitting the creature, formerly a girl, in the top of her skull, before he reloaded shot and aimed again.

  “At the gate man,” Peter called. “We will grieve for his loss later.”

  Rushing to a vantage point near the gate, he fired into the swell of the throng below.

  The surge of the swell below him, pushed harder against the gate.

  Godfrey picked up one of the pikes from the ground and stood at the side of the front of the cart, jabbing away whilst avoiding outstretched arms.

  “It’s in vain!” Cried out one of the men, as they pushed with all their strength against the rear of the cart, as it slowly edged backwards into the courtyard despite their herculean efforts to halt the onslaught of creatures entering through the gateway.

  The gate leant completely against the cart, several of the creatures dragging their bodies up the metal, grasping with gnarled hands at the bars of the gate, pulling them forward.

  Noticing one of the creatures made it through, Godfrey bent at his knees, aiming up, thrusting forcefully, as the pike struck its face, piercing and splitting its nose in two, the pike working its way through its brain, before bursting free from the rear of its skull, amidst a gushing fountain of black fluid and grey matter.

  Stumbling onto the ground behind him, he scrambled where the pikes and muskets lay, one of his men grabbing him by the arm and helping him to his feet.

  Picking up a musket, he looked for the closest barrel of powder. Reaching for it, he stopped, turning to look at the gateway, now on the verge of being overrun by the demonic horde.

  The idea struck him in an instant.

  “Peter!” He cried, to the man on the other side of the cart, lost amidst a thick haze of grey smoke.

  “Yes, my Lord!”

  “How many kegs of powder do we have in the store?”

  “Not too many my Lord for reason of safety, but enough to arm the muskets all night if necessary.”

  “Are there fuses in the store?” Godfrey asked, picking up a pike and throwing it with true aim, into the skull of a woman crawling through a gap at the bottom of the broken gate.

  “I think a few, my Lord,” Peter said, before the realisation of what Godfrey alluded to struck him, “but we would not need many if we are quick enough about it.”

  “Run to the store and grab as many kegs as you can!” He called to a couple of men stood nearby.

  The men at the gate fought harder now, even though every muscle within their bodies ached, sheer adrenalin and fear preventing them succumbing to their exhaustion.

  The cart, now snapped in two by the pure weight of the gate and of the bodies, crawling atop of it.

  Pikes were jabbed and thrown at the creatures, musket fire raining down from the walls, but the waves slowly advanced.

  Three of the men ran from the stores, a keg of powder underneath each arm.

  Godfrey called to the men amassed in the courtyard, instructing them to run to the far-side of the courtyard near the house.

  The men on top of the wall made their way to the far ends of the wall, treading carefully to ensure they did not succumb to the fate of their fallen comrade, though this was not an easy task, with the nightmarish view below of the mass of bodies staring at them, arms outreached, mouths grimacing into angry, hungry snarls as black fluid dribbled from their mouths.

  “How many kegs my Lord?” One of the men asked, approaching the cart.

  “Place two atop of the back of the cart for now,” he replied, lunging forward with a pike at one of the foul creatures, through from beneath one of the broken front cart wheels.

  The Pike struck the creature in the centre of its forehead and he leant on the handle, ensure the rest of the blade followed through, until striking the ground beneath the creature’s skull.

  The two men carrying the kegs quickly placed them onto the broken rear of the cart, Godfrey ordering all the remaining men, except the three directly at the gate, to move away.

  Peter approached with a keg under his own arm.

  Prising the wooden plug out with the blade of his knife, he poured it from the rear of the cart along the gravel of the courtyard.

  Godfrey and the others struggled now with the waves of creatures at the gate, it would be only a small matter of time before one of them fell victim to the relentless onslaught.

  Ordering the three of them to retreat, he retreated backwards, swinging the pike to keep the creatures at bay, only pausing to pick up a discarded musket.

 
“Do you have a sparking kit or a tinder pistol about your person?” he called to Peter.

  Peter looked up from the trail of powder on the floor leading away from the cart, shaking his head.

  Samuel, not yet retreated to the safety of the house, upon hearing this, ran forward.

  “I have some matches which I use for my pipe my Lordship if they be of any use?” he asked, fishing the long matches from a wooden container from his pocket.

  Taking two matches from him, Godfrey stared around the ground, until locating a stone suitable enough to strike them upon.

  “My lord, they are through!” Peter shouted.

  Looking up, he realised the weight of the mass of bodies, now pushed the cart forward even more, and were now pushing through the gap left by the gate.

  Striking one of the matches against the stone, it lit first time, he averted his eyes, holding it to the end of the line of powder on the ground near him.

  The powder ignited immediately, a strong bright flare and the unmistakeable smell of sulphur lighting and filling the air.

  Peter grabbed Samuel and Godfrey by the shoulders, leading them to the cover of the fountain.

  The blast from the powder would not have been enough to damage the stonework significantly, but the cart itself, another matter entirely, so he needed to ensure their safety.

  The rest of the people gathered within the walls, near the front of the house, and around the ornate hedges, lay on the floor or crouched with hands over their ears.

  The flaming trail reached the two opened kegs, their powder spilt across the rear of the broken cart and the night sky lit up brightly, with the flare of the fierce, ferocious eruption.

  Chapter Six

  “Dear Lord in heaven, what was that?” Hannah cried, the noise of the blast resounded from outside, the pressure rocking the lead laced windows.

  The people gathered within the great hall, held tightly to each other, Mothers holding onto their own and other’s children.

  The door to the kitchen opened as Hugh ducked beneath the staircase, huddling into the farthest reaches of its corners. He watched as it slowly closed.

  Elizabeth opened the door of their bedroom upon hearing the echoing boom of the blast, resounding throughout the house.