‘I wonder if Charlie knows how to make live traps,’ Alice asked, breaking Liz from her thoughts, ‘We’ve seen one rabbit so there’s bound to be more of them out in the wood. If we can catch a couple of them alive perhaps we could breed them?’
‘Good idea, I’ll ask him later… and the fur will come in handy when winter comes too. If this year is anything like last, we’ll need all the help we can get.’ Liz replied.
Last winter had been particularly bad. The refugees had been snowed into a derelict warehouse and it had been three weeks before enough of the snow had melted so they could get on the move again. They had even lost one of their number to hyperthermia. An old man had woken the group screaming, when his wife became one of the Dead in her sleep. She had attacked him but he was still alive, for a while at least. Charlie and one of the other men dealt with the wife and then all eyes went to the bitten old man. In the end he had gone for a walk outside with Charlie. An hour later, only Charlie came back. Liz always thought it would be better if you died then and there from an attack, rather than waiting the painful hour or so to turn. She had seen many people succumb to the bites over the years. People took the realisation they had been bitten it in various ways. Some fought with those they had loved, desperate to believe they would be the one that would be immune. But they never were and always came back just like everybody else. Some saw being bitten as an inevitability of life in this strange world, the acceptance of their fate, bringing an almost calm release for them. They could finally stop this constant fight to survive. Of course most of those bitten would want it ended before they turned. The thought of coming back as one of the abominations that had torn apart and consumed their loved ones, was beyond contemplation.
Killing yourself permanently was a difficult task unless the group had a gun, which most didn’t. They had seen many botched suicides while they had been on the road, people who had hung themselves only to rise shortly afterwards. Blue faced corpses hanging from trees like monstrous Christmas ornaments. In the end, most of the bitten would have to ask a friend to make their passing quick. Thankfully Liz had never been asked to perform this final act for someone and prayed she never would.
Looking at her watch, Liz realised their duty was nearly over. As if thinking of them made them appear, she saw Cam and Michael walking out into the garden.
Cam had been quite a respected journalist and had found himself reporting the horrors as they swept across England. Sending front line reports for the BBC world service from the airbase at Newquay, he watched the world fall apart, body by body. He had spent time with the soldiers, keeping record of their battles for a world that would no longer exist and he soon realised this was a war Man could not win. With the dead rising on all sides, the battle lines with the Dead were impossible to draw. Broken regiments would join together again and again, until men barely knew the name of the man that fought and died next to them. By the time the army became too fragmented to work effectively, he had found himself with barely a dozen surviving soldiers on a beach. As the wave of the Dead bore down on them and with the sea at their backs, he thought his time had finally come. Then like a miracle a small cruise liner had come in to view. Seeing the soldiers, they had mercifully sent a launch out for them. Staying in deep water the launch waited for the surviving soldiers to swim out to them. The Dead with their uncoordinated movements were unable to swim after them, flailing in the surf like diabolic flotsam. He had stayed on the liner for two years, until that too had become nothing more than a floating tomb. Even on the seas the Dead would not be ignored. He had finally left with a small group of other survivors, Michael being one of them. One by one they lost the other members of the group to the Dead, until there was only Michael and himself left. They finally came across the convent’s refugees after a further two years of hiding and trying to outrun the Dead. When the refugees had come upon the Lanherne convent, squirrelled away in the Cornish countryside, he finally believed there might just be a chance Man could not only survive but actually live in this world of the Dead.
Michael had been a warehouse manager, working for a large supermarket chain. He had worked hard, doing extra shifts to save enough money to treat his wife on their wedding anniversary. But their dream holiday cruise had turned into a nightmare, as they sat terrified in their cabin watching the horror unfold on their television. They watched scenes of Governments around the world desperately trying to keep the Dead at bay and all failing one by one. They even saw one reporter and her camera crew torn to pieces by the Dead, the camera falling as they fled for their lives, only to catch their last moments for all to see. Safe on board the liner, he and his wife had been lucky to escape the devastation that engulfed the world in those first few weeks. Their once in a life time holiday, had luckily turned into a floating sanctuary. When many of the passengers, and even some of the crew had demanded they be let ashore, desperate to find their loved ones, the captain reluctantly allowed them to leave. As Michael watched the launch go back and forth with its human cargo, he knew these people were certainly going to their deaths. The passengers and crew that opted to stay eventually adapted to life on their floating island. Occasionally they would send launch parties onto the mainland for supplies or on rescue missions. But two years later their sanctuary turned into a blood drenched death trap. One of the passengers had had a heart attack and came back from the Dead while a crew member was trying to resuscitate him with the kiss of life. Tearing into the crewman’s face, the passenger had not only condemned the man trying to save him but most of the Liner’s inhabitants as well. As the dozen or so survivors boarded the launch to abandon the ship, Michael watched helplessly, as his wife was snatched from him by bloody hands. He struggled with those in the launch while it descended to the water below, desperate to save his wife but already knowing she was gone forever. Cam had been in the launch with him that day and they had stayed together, fighting for the memory of those they had lost ever since.
‘Hey Liz, Alice.’ Cam said, nodding to the two young women as the two men reached the top of the ladder.
‘I heard we had Dead visitors earlier, anything since?’ He continued, looking at his bat.
His was different from the metal one Alice used. This one made of wood, had a dozen six inch nails driven through the end at various angles, making it look like an improvised medieval mace. Michael on the other hand carried a crow bar in each hand and when the Dead attacked these would smash skulls with deadly speed.
‘No, it’s been pretty quiet really,’ Alice told him, ‘Anyway, it’s all yours now, so we’re off.’
Alice and Liz said their goodbyes, climbed down the ladder and began walking through the garden back to the Convent doorway. Running round the corner at top speed, shrieking as she ran, came Anne. Following mere seconds later, was Justin covered in mud and straw. Justin was only ten and as he and Anne were the only children at the convent they fought like brother and sister.
‘Hey what’s the hurry?’ She asked, grabbing Anne as she almost ran into her.
Hiding behind her sister, Anne peeked out at Justin, who had skidded to a breathless halt.
‘What? I haven’t done anything.’ She said, giggling between rapid breaths.
‘Yes you did, you threw a bucket of chicken poo at me, you fat head.’ Justin shouted, stamping is foot.
Justin was small for his age, but then growing up in a world without regular meals would do that to a child. With Justin’s slim frame, wild sandy brown hair and large doe like eyes he had a fragile look about him, which the boy did all he could to dispel. Acting tough and putting on a brave face even when it was clear he was hurting.
Justin was only three when the Dead rose, so he was too young to remember what normal life had been like. For Justin and Anne, this was all they had ever really known. Justin had never known his mother and father, as they had died early on in the war and had been brought up by his uncle Mark. He had loved and idolised his uncle and when Uncle Mark didn’t come back one day to
their hiding place, his world fell apart. Justin didn’t know what had actually happened to his uncle but he knew deep down he would never see him again. When the refugee convoy rolled past one day he so desperately wanted to join them but was scared. He had followed at a distance trying to stay out of sight for hours. Until, out from behind a tree a man had stepped. Holding out his hand the man had just said ‘wouldn’t you prefer to ride in the wagon’ and the seven year old Justin had fallen into his arms sobbing, the relief of finding a friendly adult too much for him to bare. The man had gathered him up in protective arms, stroking his hair while hushing his tears. The man was called Rich and he and his wife, Nicky had taken care of Justin ever since. He was the child they had lost in those first few days. They were the loving uncle who just never came home. Rich and Nicky loved him as a son and he loved them as parents.
‘What are you two up to now?’ Alice asked, with her hands on her hips.
‘He started it.’ Anne whined.
‘I don’t care who started it,’ Liz interrupted, ‘you don’t go throwing chicken poo at people, Anne.’ She said giving her a secret wink, ‘Now apologize to Justin.’
Anne mumbled a weak apology, looking at her feet.
‘Girls!’ Justin exclaimed and stomped off trying to look as much like the man he so desperately wanted to be.
The image slightly belittled by the straw and chicken droppings randomly falling to floor. As Liz watched him leave, she realised that with Justin being the only boy here anyway near Anne’s age, they would probably end up together when they got older. She hoped they both survived that long, she didn’t like to think of her younger sister never knowing the type of joy that she shared with Imran.
‘Have you done your jobs?’ Liz asked, looking down at Anne’s smudged dirty face, ‘Well obviously you’ve cleaned out the chickens, sort of.’ she continued picking a stray piece of straw from her sister’s hair. A cheeky grin crept across Anne’s face.
The two children had been put in charge of looking after the goats and chickens. Sister Catherine had shown them how to collect the eggs without getting their hands pecked to pieces and how to milk and care for the goats. Anne didn’t like the goats, they were too boisterous and most of the time they didn’t seem too keen on being milked anyway. Thankfully, Justin had agreed he would look after the goats and she would care for the chickens.
‘Yes, I’m all done.Sixteen eggs today and three more new chicks have hatched.’ She answered, kicking at a tuft of grass with her foot.
With the chickens being fed on meagre scraps and any bits they could peck from the yard, they certainly wouldn’t win any beauty contest. But they produced a good amount of eggs and once a month the group had meat, so they couldn’t complain.
‘Well, you go wash up, it’ll be meal time soon.’ Said Liz, ruffling Anne’s hair.
The late afternoon meal was the one time that most of the Convent refugees would come together. Of course there would always be two people missing at any gathering, they still had to keep a vigilant eye out for the Dead over the wall.
As Anne ran off to wash, Liz went looking for Charlie. She was curious about their new arrival and the tale he had to tell. The afternoon sun had done little to relieve the chill from the convent corridors, its warmth unable to penetrate the thick stone walls. She eventually found Charlie with Sister Josephine and William, their new guest in the refectory. Sister Josephine sat patiently with her hands clasped together in her lap, a kind look on her face, as William tucked into a bowl of thick soup like the starving man that he was. Charlie, his muscular frame making William seem even more emaciated, sat on the table edge waiting for him to finish. As always when he was in the convent he had put the protective sheath over the serrated blade permanently strapped to his left wrist. While he waited he polished one of the four ice picks that usually sat crossed on his chest and back. Charlie liked to get close and personal when he put down the Dead. When he wasn’t using the blade on his wrist, the ice picks would happily puncture skulls, destroying rotten brains within. He rarely had to remove a second pick from its webbing but it was better to have three spare, than to be in need of one and not have it to hand. As Liz walked into the room, William froze, the spoon hovering half way to his mouth.
‘William, this is Liz, one of the people sharing our home.’ Sister Josephine said, putting him at ease. Slowly the spoon went to his mouth, his hunger outweighing his apprehension. He nodded a greeting at her and carried on eating.
While Liz and Alice had been doing their watch duty, Charlie had taken William to see Nadine. She was the closest thing they had to anyone medical at the convent. William had been stripped and checked for bite marks. Hospitality being only for the living, they didn’t want a man sized cuckcoo in the nest, biting the proverbial hand that fed them. He had then bathed and been told to shave his head and body. Lice were as prevalent as the Dead were outside the Convent walls, so all new guests had to go through this to prevent spreading their infestations to others. William had not done a very good job at shaving his head, nicks and bloody patches dotting his scalp and as he sat there in a clean oversized T-shirt and trousers, he certainly looked a sorry sight.
Liz came and stood behind Sister Josephine as William tipped the last dregs of soup from the bowl. Laying the bowl gently down on the table, he looked at the three figures stood around him. The solider, the nun and the young woman, odd bedfellows indeed.
‘Thank you,’ he said. His voice had a dry whispery quality to it, like he hadn’t spoken to another living soul in some time.
‘You’re welcome… Charlie here, tells me he found you tied in a tree with just that poor excuse for a horse below. Travelling without a covered wagon seems very foolhardy.’ Sister Josephine said, concern knitting together her brows.
‘I had a wagon to start with.’ He coughed, his voice box protesting at its use.
‘I had been travelling with my brother Robert and his six year old son, Frankie. We had made camp in a decrepit old barn. There were no Dead around so we should have been ok. I was on first watch up in the rafters while they slept below and I swear I must’ve only fallen asleep for a few minutes but when I woke up…’ Tears fell from his tired eyes as he covered his face with his hands.
William coughed, forcing down the emotion in an attempt to compose himself, ‘but when I woke up, I knew something was wrong. I could smell the blood straight away even from where I was sitting. I called to Robert but as he turned to look up at me I could see it was over. Those Dead eyes looked back at me and my brother was gone forever. He was covered in blood with a big slash across his neck. For a while I hoped Frankie had hidden himself somewhere but there was no sign of him, alive or Dead… When Robert had become slower I dealt with him and then went looking for Frankie. There didn’t seem to be any other Dead about so I left the wagon and just took the horse for speed. That was two months ago and I’ve been searching ever since. I haven’t found him yet but he was so small you see. He can’t have walked that far. He needs to be with his Daddy, that’s all I want, just to put him with his Daddy.’ William choked out the last words as tears fell freely from his eyes.
‘Hey you never know, he may have made it to one of the Outposter’s homes and still be safe.’ Liz said, trying to sound reassuring but not believing her own words.
‘Tell you what, I’ll take a few people out tomorrow to the closest Outposter holdings and ask them if they’ve seen Frankie, OK?’ Charlie said, resting his hand on William’s shoulder.
‘Thank you… even if he’s one of the Dead, I just need to know,’ William said, wiping the tears from his eyes.
Charlie gave a sad smile and got up to leave the room. Catching Liz’s eye he nodded towards the door, wanting her to follow.
‘We’ll have to warn the Outposters that there’s some bandit activity in the area at the moment.’ Charlie said.
‘Sorry, what do you mean, bandits?’ Liz asked, confusion stopping her in her tracks.
Charlie turned
to Liz and said, ‘Since when have the Dead slit someone’s throat? And he said himself there were no signs of the Dead before, or after his brother died. So unless we’ve got a six year old psycho on our hands who killed his own father, then my guess is it’s bandits.’
‘But what did they kill Robert for? They even left his horse’ Liz couldn’t understand some people in this Dead world.
The Living had enough odds stacked against them as it was, they really could do without bands of outlaws thinking life was so cheap, especially now that it was in such short supply.
‘Who knows, Lizzy,’ Charlie said, as they continued walking down the corridor ‘some people are just looking out for number one, some people are scared and some people are just plain angry.’
‘Angry at who?’ Liz asked.
‘Angry at those who survived, I guess. They think, why did this person deserve to die and this person deserve to live. And I guess it’s just all got a bit mixed up in their heads. We’ve all lost somebody, if not everybody, and it hurts. Deep pain like that affects different people different ways. Some let it out and deal with it, while for others it turns inwards and consumes them like a cancer until all that is left is the pain.’
They continued down the hall in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Friends and loved ones long gone, suddenly remembered. Ghostly memories, appearing to tease their healing wounds. Not looking where they were going, they both walked right into Nadine as she came round the corner. As usual she had her nose in a book.
Nadine had an amazing memory. Anything she read would be squirrelled away in her brain and could be called on when needed. When the world had changed Nadine had hidden away in her bookshop. With the shutters down and reading by candle light, she escaped the horror of the world outside. Leaving behind the death, that only metres away tore the world to pieces, she found comfort between the pages of book after book. After two weeks the screams outside her closed world became less and less frequent, until she rarely heard anything at all. With all her food now gone and the water no longer working, she knew she would need to leave her sanctuary sooner rather than later. Looking out of the small back window, trying to build up the courage to leave, she noticed, across the roof tops, the back of the small supermarket, one of its skylight hatches was ajar. Thinking it was as good an opportunity as any, she grabbed her holdall and the hammer from a tool box. She didn’t know if she would be able to use the hammer on anyone but the satisfying weight in her hand gave her some comfort as she crept along the roof to the hatch. She spent forever straining her ears, listening for any movement within. Once she was convinced it was safe, she lowered her slim body through the hatch to the shop below. Miraculously, she found herself in the stock room. Holdall by holdall, slowly over the next three weeks, she emptied the stock room of everything she might need. She lasted in her world of books for another eight months reading and committing to memory everything she thought would be useful in this new world. Books on survival, books on herb law, books on farming and animal husbandry, they were all consumed by her thirst for knowledge. But when one day she heard the lorry coming down the street, she knew it was time to leave her haven and venture into this new Dead world. She stayed with various small communities over the next few years, hoping to help them build something new but each time fleeing with a few other survivors as the Dead overran them. She was one of the few inhabitants at the convent that hadn’t arrived with Charlie and his caravan of survivors. She had been travelling from village to village through Devon and Cornwall with Bryon, a fellow survivor from a community that had fallen to the Dead. They had come upon the Lanherne Convent quite by chance and the Sisters had taken them in. Behind the high walls she felt safe, hidden away from the Death outside. Finally she had found her new bookshop, her new home.
Six Days With the Dead Page 4