Six Days With the Dead

by Stephen Charlick

  ‘Push down here,’ Charlie shouted to Imran, throwing his weight on the concrete block.

  Already the moans of the Dead were getting closer. As Charlie and Imran forced the block downwards the first gate slowly began to rise. Liz Looked behind her at the Dead, it was going to be close. Then over from the cottage a crash sounded. Glancing in that direction Liz was horrified to see more of the Dead clambering through the broken shell of the cottage, called to dinner by their comrades in death. The moaning increased in volume as the new Dead stumbled their way through the overgrown garden, past the corpses of the horses and on towards the exposed Charlie and Imran.

  ‘Hurry!’ Liz shouted, ‘We’ve got more coming from the right!’

  Just then the first gate clicked into its vertical position and with an urgent flick of the reins Liz moved Delilah forward onto the track. Only when she was there could she see just how the Dead had found themselves in this remote part of the Cornish countryside. Down the track, some fifty metres away, an old rusting steam engine lay on its side. Behind it two broken and shattered carriages had been pulled off the tracks, as the engine had derailed. Liz had no idea where they had come from or where these rail riding Out-posters had intended to go. At the moment she really didn’t care. Imran and Charlie were struggling with the second gate. Straining to force the weight down, Charlie called to Liz

  ‘As soon as there’s room, get that thing through, OK!’

  Liz’s head spun back and forth, watching the Dead behind them getting closer all the time as the gate rose slowly inch by inch.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ she repeated over and over to herself, willing them to raise the gate in time.

  The Dead had already reached the back of the cart, she could hear their hands slapping against the wood. They weren’t going to make it, she was sure of it. Reaching over to the side hatch she slammed it closed, just as a Dead figure with one side of its face missing, came into view.

  ‘Come on!’ she screamed, frantic that Imran and Charles were now only a few metres away from the large crowd of the Dead.

  ‘Now!’ Charlie yelled.

  The gate, although not totally upright, it was at an angle steep enough that the cart should just fit under. Liz yelled loudly for Delilah to go, hoping the horse would hear her over the moans of the dead. As Delilah pulled the cart level with Charlie and Imran, Liz could see the strain in their faces as they tried to keep the gate raised high enough for her to pass under. With a loud scraping noise, the cart just made it underneath. As soon as the end of the cart was through, Charlie and Imran let go of the gate counter weight. With a bang the gate fell back into place, trapping two of the Dead beneath it. Knowing not to push their luck, Charlie and Imran jumped over the waist high gate and ran for the cart. Two of the Dead had managed to come through as the cart had passed. One was still pounding on the back hatch, desperate to get in, while the other was trying to lift itself up off the road on thin bony arms. With a smooth motion, Charlie took the sheath from his wrist knife and punched the walking cadaver in the back of its head. Then with barely a pause, he aimed a kick at the Dead man on the ground. His boot connected with the head with such force the neck broke, vertebrae jutting out through grey decaying skin.

  ‘Get in!’ Liz screamed, kicking open the side hatch.

  Glancing behind them she could see some of the Dead that were climbing over their fallen comrades and falling this side of the gate

  ‘Now!’

  Charlie and Imran ran to the cart, throwing themselves through the hatch.

  ‘Go!’ Charlie shouted, landing next to the crate of piglets.

  Imran barely had a chance to get his feet all the way in, before Liz flicked Delilah’s reins and yelled for her to go. As they sped away from the train line, the passengers were once again jostled around in the back of the cart. Even at speed Liz still had to try to steer Delilah around the worst of the pot holes in the road. A broken wheel now would be disastrous and probably fatal. Now that the Dead had seen living flesh escape in this direction, they would tirelessly put one foot in front of the other in pursuit of the meal that had eluded them.

  After five minutes of running Delilah at high speed through the small winding lanes, Liz began to let her slow down. They should have put enough distance between themselves and the Dead now, and there was no point tiring Delilah out, as they still had to reach the O’Brien’s place before dark.

  ‘Right I’ll take over from here,’ Charlie said, tapping Liz on the shoulder, ‘You go rest a bit. All this bumping around can’t be good for your headache.’

  It wasn’t until Charlie had mentioned it that Liz realised the thumping in her head had returned.

  ‘Must’ve been the adrenalin,’ Liz said, handing Charlie the reins, ‘but it’s coming back with a vengeance now.’

  ‘Here,’ Imran said, wetting a folded cloth for Liz to rest on her forehead ‘but no sleeping. It’s not a good sign if you fall asleep after a bang to the head.’

  Liz’s tense muscles screamed to be allowed to relax and she felt shattered. Whether that was the after-effects of the adrenalin rushing through her body, or a symptom that her head injury was more serious than they thought, she didn’t know.

  ‘You lost a lot of arrows back there,’ Liz said to Imran, whipping away a dribble of water that had run from the cloth down to the tip of her nose, ‘How many have you got left?’

  Doing a quick check on the arrows he had left, Imran frowned.

  ‘Only twenty five,’ he said ‘let’s hope we don’t run into any more trouble. This trip is starting to suck, big time.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s one way to put it,’ Liz smiled.

  ****

  Outside, the warmth of the afternoon was slowly fading away and Liz could see the sun starting to tint the horizon a warm rose colour. Soon the countryside would drift through the grey light of dusk and into the solid blackness of night. If they were lucky, the sky would be clear tonight and they would be able to make the final leg of their journey by the light of the moon and stars.

  ‘How much further to the O’Briens, Charlie?’ She asked.

  ‘We’ll be there in about two hours,’ Charlie replied ‘we’ll stay the night and head off home at first light. And as the O’Briens will be staying with us for a while, we won’t have to call on any neighbours for some time’

  ‘Thank fuck,’ Imran said under his breath.

  Over the next hour and half the three travelled in silence, each letting the tension from their train line encounter drain from their bodies. As she watched Stinky and Ratbag squabble and chase each other about their crate, Liz’s headache slowly faded and she could tell she was feeling more like her usual self. Outside the sky had turned an inky black, dotted with a million sparkling stars. Only on the distant horizon a tinge of deep orange remained a while longer, as the sun bid them a final farewell until the morning. It was dangerous to travel at night. Not that many of the dangers weren’t still there in the day, just at night they were harder to see. One consolation was at least the Dead had no better night vision than the living, so that was one thing slightly in their favour now.

  ‘Nice view coming up,’ Charlie said, as they crested a hill.

  The fields suddenly fell away and before them was the huge expanse of the darkly glittering sea. The moon still low, cast its silvery light over the vista below, reflecting off the slowly breaking waves and ghostly pale pebble beach. Even in the cart, the air took on that special smell that only the ocean could have, instantly refreshing them. Liz quietly opened the top hatch and stood up. Letting the cool sea breeze wash over her, the last grumblings of her headache seemed to fade away with each deep cleansing breath. She looked at the small road they would be traveling on, as it followed the coast line down to the small seaside village of Cawsand Bay where the O’Briens had set up home.

  Apparently, until the reign of Queen Victoria, the area had been synonymous with smuggling. The hidden away cove, with its tiny fishing village, was an ideal
location to bring ashore the illegal booty. So to deter this activity the authorities had built a fortified Customs house that held those in service of the crown and also acted as a small temporary jail for those unlucky smugglers that were caught. Later, the building became a small police station for the local area and then, many years later, when the world fell apart and the Dead walked, Mr and Mrs O’Brien took up residence. The O’Briens solid Victorian home stood alone on a small windswept peninsula, overlooking the harbour that housed the village of Cawsand Bay. Thankfully, many of the original inhabitants of the village had fled to the sea in their boats when the Dead first made their appearance, so when the O’Briens came across this sheltered haven, there were very few of the Dead to deal with at all.

  Liz thought if they could just build a huge wall around the whole area, it would be a beautiful place to live. But at the end of the day she would never give up the security she felt behind the high thick walls of Lanherne for merely a scenic view. With a click of his tongue and a gentle flick of the reins, Charlie urged Delilah forward along the small coastal road. Soon the harsh silhouette of the O’Brien home came into view. Standing proud and defiant above the crashing waters, the home did not look very inviting. Of course they did not expect to see cheery lights burning at every window, these would just attract the Dead but somehow this place had an air of loneliness about it.

  ‘I guess its home to them,’ Liz said aloud, as the cart began to climb a small gravel side road that led to the dark house on the peninsula.

  They could hear the distant call of gulls returning to their roost from a day at sea and somewhere foxes were calling to one another. No, Cawsand bay may be beautiful during the day, but at night it transformed into a place that could smother you with its forlorn isolation.

  As the cart pulled up to the old police station, they waited for Daniel or Emma O’Brien to appear. After five minutes of sitting there and still no sign of anyone, Liz reached for her sword, knowing instinctively something was wrong.

  ‘Oh for fucks sake,’ Imran said, ‘don’t say the raiders have got here before us.’

  ‘Well there’s only one way to find out,’ Charlie replied.

  ‘I’m coming this time,’ she said, catching Charlie’s eye, ‘Imran can’t aim a bow in this darkness and I feel fine now, so no arguments.’

  Shrugging his shoulders, Charlie knew it was pointless to argue with her. He trusted her to use her best judgement at all times. She would never put any of them at risk just to prove a point. Jumping down from the cart, the gravel crunched beneath them and they made their way to the thick front door. The small barred windows on the ground floor were dark, showing no signs of any life inside. Pushing gently against the door, Liz was surprised when it swung open revealing a dark panelled room with the remains of the police front desk still in place. The room smelled of smoke and opposite the desk was a small fireplace with embers still glowing faintly its the hearth.

  ‘This doesn’t look good,’ Charlie whispered, ‘No sign of them, but from the fireplace they’ve obviously been here sometime in the last few hours.’

  Stepping into the shadowy room, the only light source coming from the moonlight behind them and the very soft orange glow from the embers, they realised it would be near impossible to see any of the Dead coming for them in here. Picking up a piece of wood from beside the fire and tearing a strip off one of the faded curtains, Charlie made an impromptu torch. Blowing against the fading embers it took a while for the fabric to catch but eventually he soon had a blazing torch to light their way.

  ‘Ready?’ he said, turning to Liz.

  But Liz was looking down at the tiled flooring. Now that they had some light they could both clearly see that at the far end of the room by another doorway, the tiles were covered in a spray of deep red blood.

  ‘Oh fuck!’ Charlie said.

  Remembering the sight of poor Mrs Penhaligan lying face down in the garden with her head smashed in, Liz’s heart sank to think of Emma O’Brien and her unborn baby meeting such a fate .

  ‘Right, this place is probably a warren of small offices, not to mention the cells. I say we open that door, make some noise and wait for whoever that blood belonged to, to come to us,’ Charlie suggested.

  Nodding, Liz went over to the door, trying to step round the pool of blood. Placing her hand on a blood covered door handle, she gave it a push. The door swung open with a creek, showing a dark corridor lined with boxes and shelves stacked with supplies. Wiping the foreign blood from her palm onto he trouser leg, Liz looked at Charlie.

  ‘Hello, Hello, anyone home? Get your live flesh here!’ she shouted down the corridor.

  Then straining her hearing, she listened for any sound coming from within the police station. She tried again, but it was soon clear the place was as dead as the person whose blood she was standing in.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said to Charlie, ‘I can’t hear a thing.’

  Suddenly there was a frantic crunching of the gravel just outside. Spinning with an ice pick ready in his hand, Charlie was relieved to find that it was just Imran running towards them.

  ‘There’s someone walking down on the beach,’ Imran said, with a flick of his head.

  Following Imran back outside, Charlie and Liz walked surrounded by the pool of yellow light of their torch. So as not to ruin his night vision, Charlie handed Liz the torch and walked over to Imran. After briefly closing his eyes to readjust them to the limited light supply, he looked to the beach below them. Sure enough, a figure was walking along the surf line, its back to police station on the peninsula.

  ‘Right, let’s get down there and see what’s what,’ Charlie said, ‘Imran, you stay here with Delilah, Liz with me.’

  Breaking into a jog before the words had left his mouth, Charlie was off. Liz thrust the torch to Imran and with a wink she too disappeared into the darkness. Pausing briefly at the end of the gravelled side road, Charlie turned to Liz who had been a few paces behind.

  ‘There’s a pathway leading down to the beach over there,’ he said, pointing to a break in the fence running along the cliff side of the road.

  As they reached the top of the path, Charlie held up his hand for her to stop. They listened intently for any danger, before they began their descent, hearing only the distant break of the surf below, they carried on. Walking along a cliff path in the dark, with high grass on one side, and a drop on the other was not Liz’s idea of fun. Every few paces, she would turn around, checking the darkness behind them for an unseen attack. But no attack came and soon the small path of trampled down grass turned sandy as they reached the top of the beach. Looking up the way they had come, Liz could still make out Imran standing by the cart, the torch waving in his hand. As they stepped off the last part of the path, the sand gave way to the shingle that covered many of the beaches in this area.

  ‘Well there’s no sneaking up on them, not with these pebbles,’ Charlie said, as they began crunching their way across the beach to the distant figure still walking in the surf.

  The figure stopped and peered out to the ocean, its shoulders slumped as waves lapped at its ankles. They could now see from the silhouette that it was a man. The scene before them could so easily have been just someone out for a stroll with something serious to think out. But the blood at the Police station told a different story. When they were twenty metres away, the crunching of the shingle underfoot alerted the man to their presence. With a stiff automatic movement, the man turned to face them.

  ‘Mr O’Brien, is that you? Where’s Emma, Daniel?’ Liz said, holding her sword low so as not to appear a threat.

  If he was in shock there was no telling what he may do. Then the figure took a step towards them, and then another. Then with a sound that was part roar and part moan, he burst into a sprint directly for them. Luckily, the shifting shingle beneath his feet slowed him down slightly.

  ‘We’ve got a Runner!’ Charlie shouted to Liz, recognising the call immediately.

  The ma
n, who they assumed was probably Daniel O’Brien, had died during the last three or four hours. His brain was still able to assert relatively smooth control over his limbs but there was no doubt he was as Dead as the shambling cadavers they had met earlier that day. In that split second Liz noticed his blood covered hands clenching and unclenching, desperate to get hold of either of them. In that one movement she could see his desperation to rip into their flesh and feast upon their living bodies. Placing her feet in an optimum battle stance, Liz readied herself, her blade held high behind her. The Dead Mr O’Brien was now only a few metres away, his moan developing a growling undertone as he chewed frantically at his own lips.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Charlie said to himself, as they could now see how Mr O’Brien had died.

  Like James Penhaligan his throat had been cut, or at least it had been attempted. This time the cut had not gone deep enough, or perhaps Mr O’Brien had tried to fight them off during the attack. Either way, instead of the single slice under the chin, this cut had slipped down to the shoulder on one side, missing the major arteries. Whoever had killed him, finally had to resort to plunging a knife deep into his chest to finish him off. The Dead man’s milky eyes focusing on Charlie seemed to glow in the pale moonlight. With an extra burst of speed, Daniel O’Brien lunged at Charlie with murderous intent. After his time in the army, and years of fighting the Dead, this frenzied attack was clumsy at best. With a quick sidestep, Charlie was swinging his ice pick towards the back of the Dead man’s skull. With a dull ‘thud’ the tip of the pick broke through Mr O’Brien’s cranium and tore into the brain. With the unnatural life now gone from this moving sack of flesh and bones, Daniel O’Brien slumped to his knees and fell to his side, forever to lie among the other flotsam and jetsam along the high tideline.

  ‘Shit,’ Charlie said, as he wiped clean the tip of the ice pick, ‘We’ve got to get back to the Convent as soon as possible, we’ve been dealing with this bullshit long enough.’