by Fleet, Ricky
“You bastards,” he growled, retrieving the sawn off shotgun from his jacket. Picturing the faces of his dead friends, blazing fury took over. Standing up on the uninjured leg, Matt sighted the man who’d shot him who was still searching in his pockets. Dropping the barrel slightly, he pulled one of the triggers and the gun bucked against his shoulder. The blast took the Gypsy out at the knee and he fell down screaming. The pain was swiftly forgotten as his body started to roll down the bank towards the eager mouths below. Trying to grab the thick bars as he shot over the rim, his hands missed by inches and he fell into the teeming mass of undead.
A rifle cracked and Matt felt the slug tear through his coat beneath his left armpit. A few inches to the right and he’d have been shot through the heart. Saving the last shell, he raced for the tree line. Each step was sheer torture, as if a rat was trapped in his lower leg, gnawing and scratching to be free of the fleshy prison.
“He went that way!” cried a guard as Matt disappeared into the foliage.
A rumble clatter of dropping drawbridge followed as he broke for the woodland. The sound of footsteps and hooves clattered in the darkness. The hunt was on.
Chapter 27
Matt leaned back against the bark of the tree, attempting to regain his breath and give a moments respite to the shot riddled calf muscle. Changing direction multiple times, he’d not managed to cover a great deal of distance since the mad scramble from the Gypsy camp. The flash of torch beams in the surrounding fields were far enough away to give hope that the plan to throw them off was working in some small part. Sitting down, he tore at the seam of his trouser leg until the stitching parted. The fabric was sodden with warm, sticky moisture which he knew was his own leaking vital fluids. Touching the wound in the darkness, the pocked skin was puffy and weeping. Luckily, nothing was spurting. The damage was localised to the back of his leg and the thick muscle had afforded some protection. Gritting his teeth at the blazing agony, he squeezed gently and one of the tiny pellets fell from the wound like a popped pimple.
It’s not too deep, thank Christ. Doesn’t stop it hurting like a bastard though!
Taking off the coat, he ripped a sleeve from his sweater and fastened it around the suppurating injury. Pulling it tight, a starburst exploded in his vision and he nearly passed out from the pulses of torture flowing up from the damaged limb. Taking a few moments to regain his composure, Matt wrestled himself to his feet with the aid of the tree and put the coat back on. Losing blood, albeit slowly, was weakening him considerably. Added to the frigid embrace of the English winter, he needed to get as far away as possible and find somewhere warm to ride out the night. Where that would be he had no idea. Even now he could count over twenty individual lances of light cutting through the black of night.
Get your ass moving!
Pushing off, the first step nearly crippled him. During the brief period of inaction, the adrenaline had ebbed away and ravaged nerves took the opportunity to regroup. Grinding his teeth hard enough to chip the enamel, he forged on across the open field. The familiar, throaty song of an undead choir could be heard from nearby and he stopped dead. A crescent moon provided a weak, ethereal luminosity to the land, which was more than enough to see by. Glancing around, ready for an attack, he frowned when he discovered nothing was coming towards him. It was the strangest thing. Judging by the volume, they could only be a few paces away at most.
You’re losing it. You’re hearing boogeymen because of the blood loss. You’ll be passing out soon and then Claire will get the chance to drop that glowing ball into your belly. It’ll gurgle and spit, just like it did with Terry.
“Shut up,” he whispered to the doubting voice.
Placing his good leg down, the toes brushed against a raised bed of earth and something hard beneath it. Scraping away at the loose soil, he could see the buried sticks and leaves. Ten feet to the right, a darker patch of ground stood in contrast to the surrounding field. Carefully moving around the raised edge, he found the hole. From within, the vague sparkle of reflected moonlight came from the dozens of eyes that stared up at him.
A fucking trap?
This was bad. Was there only one, or a lot more? Where were they? His already slow progress would now become a snail’s pace of searching for hidden peril before each step. The Gypsies would no doubt know the pits like the back of their hand, ensuring they could scout the area that much faster. Staring up at the crescent of white radiance, he remembered the lesson of his scout teacher from back in the day. He imagined a line between the two points and placed it onto the horizon.
That’s south.
He’d made a mental note of the position of the sun during their walk. They were marched northeast, so logically he needed to head southwest. Turning in that direction, he stumbled around the hidden excavation and lumbered on. Each twist of the bad leg on the uneven ground sent a wave of fire shooting up through his thigh and along the spine. Thinking of his wife and boys, Matt pushed away the discomfort and penetrating cold. Picturing their faces, he strode on, ignoring the shouts of communication between the men searching for him. He was in the open, and there was nowhere to hide in the event of a pass by the powerful beams. His wife reached out, urging him onwards with a warm smile that battled with the icy reality. Making it to the treeline, Matt paused and the comforting apparition vanished. His hands were shaking and the effects of the shock were taking their toll.
Keep moving, you’ve got to keep moving.
Crunching through the underbrush, the tree cover provided a marginal improvement to the temperature. Slipping hands that felt like two blocks of ice into his pockets, he flexed the digits which felt like ten brittle icicles. Risking the chance of a stumble and face plant in the near total darkness, he step shuffled through the forest. To anyone watching, his awkward movement resembled one of the rotting zombies infesting the land. It may lead to a bullet in the head, but that was preferable to being cooked from the inside out. Feeling his eyelids droop from exhaustion, he rifled in the deep pockets to find two matchsticks to hold them open.
It worked in the cartoons.
Chuckling to himself, he tried to pry them open with fingers that didn’t want to cooperate. Stumbling on, the pain of the gunshot was gradually fading.
I’m a zombie! They don’t feel pain either.
Raising his hands, he let out an imitation of the rotting creature’s cry and giggled again. The logical voice in his mind was screaming in desperation. Hypothermia was setting in rapidly, creating the feeling of confusion and disorientation. You need to get warm! It cried.
I am warm.
Suddenly bathed in glowing sunshine, Matt smiled and held his arms wide to absorb the glorious heat. A noise in the dark brought Matt crashing back to reality. To the dark. To the cold. To the hunt.
Dogs. Fuck!
It was all over. Every second step created a dull squelch resembling a wet burp. His shoe was filled with blood, and it was leaving a trail even the lowliest of hounds could follow. As if picking up his concerns, the manic barking of the hunters increased in pitch. They’d found it.
Shoot yourself. It’ll be quick.
The logical voice had resigned itself to the inevitable outcome of the futile escape attempt. Matt looked at his empty hands in a daze.
“You left it against the tree, you fucking idiot!” he groaned. Disoriented by the pain, he’d completely forgotten the double barrelled weapon and the single cartridge still within the firing chamber. Unsure what to do, he could smell burning flesh, hear the sizzle and pop of his blood. She won’t wait until morning now, you know that. It won’t be quick like the others, either. Mrs Hampton’s going to make it last a long, long time.
“Shut the fuck up!” he spat to the antagonistic inner voice.
Fighting back the fear, he stoked the righteous anger which pulsed through his body. With a grunt, he decided to get as far as possible before being caught. They would have to carry him back to that infernal camp unconscious. Joining the frantic
yelps of the dogs were the furious shouts of the kennel watchers. They knew it was only a matter of time.
Out of the night came another noise, the sounds of a rushing whisper. Heading in the direction of the noise, he realized it was running water. Lots of it. Crashing through a spiky hawthorn bush, the small tributary ran over rocks and reeds towards the larger River Arun. Was it the scoutmaster who had shown the troop that using a stream could mask a scent? It might even have been a film. No matter, it gave him a chance. Stepping into the free flowing runoff from the surrounding hills and valleys, Matt hissed in shock. Somehow it was even colder than the cloudless winter night. Holding out his arms for balance, the water urged him onwards, gently nudging with its insistent torrents.
“Not much further,” he mumbled to himself, knowing it was a lie.
After moving only a hundred yards, all sensation had fled his feet and lower legs. Was it enough to throw off the rapidly approaching dogs? Not a chance, laughed his doubting voice. Stepping up onto the bank, the slippery mud gave way and his legs slipped out from under him. Catching the previously numb, damaged calf on an unseen rock beneath the rushing stream, the pain was like nothing he’d ever felt. Toppling sideways, he was unconscious before his face went under the turbulent surface.
Chapter 28
“It’s about time you woke up,” said Craig.
Matt’s eyes opened, a brittle crust of sleep causing him to blink rapidly at the discomforting tear dust. The white ceiling of the medical wing stared back at him. His whole body ached, but his lower leg seemed to be sitting directly over a fire. The only thing missing was the horrific crackle hiss of the previous night.
“What the fuck happened?” Craig demanded.
“He’s been through Hell, give him a few minutes,” urged Mike from the doorway.
“Fuck that! He’s been shot and we have no fucking idea where the others are!”
Kaleidoscopic flashes ran through Matt’s mind. Drowning. Rolling over in the flowing stream, body tumbling from the force of water. Bitter cold. Needles of ice stabbing him in every inch of skin.
“How did I get here?” he whispered, still weak as a kitten.
“We found you at the northern tunnel, shot. Some of the wall guards said they saw movement in the area and called me. What’s even stranger is some fucker lit a candle in one of the homes to get our attention. It was fluttering away, plain as day.”
“How did I get to the tunnel? The last thing I remember…”
Rough hands dragging him from the brook. Dogs barking madly. The shouts of furious men.
“This is a dream isn’t it? I’m asleep in the camp still?” Matt shuddered and closed his eyes.
“What the fuck are you talking about? You’re in the prison medical ward,” Craig snapped.
“Bullshit. I’ll wake up soon and then she’ll… she’ll…”
“She’ll what? Who’s she?” asked Mike.
“Please, God. Let me never wake up,” Matt begged.
If he kept his eyes closed, none of it would be real. He wouldn’t be taken back to that infernally hot building. He wouldn’t be strapped to the table. He wouldn’t smell the acerbic stench of his blood and stomach acid boil as the incandescent steel ball sunk into his body. The void beckoned, pulling him back into its dark embrace.
“Matt, wake up!” Craig shouted, slapping his face gently.
“Get the fuck off me! You can’t have me!”
“They fucked him up good,” Mike muttered at the thrashing Scotsman.
Matt ignored the words, desperate to sink back into painless oblivion. More images rolled in his mind. Stumbling through the woods. Strong arms supporting him. A fire. More stumbling. More fires. Distractions.
“Matt, you’re back at the prison, mate. I need you to calm down and talk to me,” Craig said as calmly as he could.
“Who shot him? Was it one of the others?” asked Mike.
The barking faded with distance. A man muttering about the plan working. A dark shelter, blankets, hay, warmth. Being stripped completely naked and dried off. Dry clothes being slipped on his powerless body. Sleep.
“Matt? Come back to us, mate.”
Opening his eyes again, he glanced sideways at the two men. Was this real? How would he know? Reaching out a hand, Craig took it and gave it a reassuring, and very real, squeeze.
“There he is.”
“Am I really back at the prison?”
“You are.” Craig emphasized the you. “Where’re the others?”
“Dead.”
“What do you mean, dead? What happened?” Craig demanded.
“Can I have a drink? My mouth’s as dry as the…”
Bellows hissing, flames roaring, coals glowing. The forge, the sparkling red metal.
“Here,” Mike said, offering a straw.
Drawing gratefully on the fresh water, he nodded weakly in thanks to the younger brother. Craig pulled up a stool and sat down, staring intently.
“Did the doc patch me up?”
“No, one of the lifers. He’d been in the military and knew a few basic dressings.”
“Where’s Feeley then?”
“That’s another good fucking question,” Craig replied and said no more.
“What happened?” asked Mike.
“We were on our way back when we got jumped at the bridge to the south. They took us to their camp and tortured us. Killed us.”
“Who’s they?”
“Gypsies. Part of the Hampton traveller clan. Where’s Hombre?” Matt suddenly sat bolt upright. Head swimming, he fell back to the pillow.
“We’d like to know that too,” Craig muttered. “He took Debbie and the doc and scarpered.”
“He killed her sons when he went for the generator, that’s why they came after us.”
“And I think we can put to bed the question of who our two pancaked friends were,” Mike added with a shudder of his own. His nightmares now revolved around seeing the ghastly, crushed bodies. Their jellied attempts to stand and grab him. Then being in the same dark tunnel, the slow motion removal of the chains and the bearing down of the tons of compacted earth. Shaking his head to banish the awful illusion, he returned his attention to Matt.
“So we’re responsible for the death of four of theirs, and they’re responsible for the death of eleven of ours,” Craig growled, the familiar red hue spreading to his fury contorted face.
“Six,” said Matt.
“What?”
“I killed two guards inside their camp to get away.”
“Who gives a shit if it’s four, six, or twenty? It seems we need a little payback.”
“Boss, no. They’re hundreds strong at least, with more guns than you can imagine.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“We stay as far away as possible and pray we never run into them again.”
“What’s got into you? I’ve never known you back down from a fight.”
Matt trembled involuntarily at the poor choice of words. “I mean no disrespect, boss. But Mrs Hampton makes you look like an angel. She’s utterly psychotic.”
“And I’m not?”
“Not like this,” Matt whispered. The look of unadulterated horror in his eyes made both brother’s skin crawl.
“Tell us.”
“No!” Matt blurted, not wishing to relive the scene. “Not right now! I’ll… I’ll tell you at some point. Maybe.”
“Was it that bad?” Mike asked.
“Worse than you can imagine.”
“So where does that leave us?”
Matt pulled him close. “We need to stay away.”
“Fuck that. I’ll go and talk to the crazy cunt myself. I’m sure we can come up with something. We might even be able to work together,” Craig suggested, confidently.
Matt shook his head and said only one word. “Don’t.”
If fear was an energy, it transferred directly between the two men at that point. For the first time in his life, Craig was unsure
of his power. Never had he felt the sensation before and he didn’t like it one bit. On the streets he was untouchable; everyone did his bidding or suffered the consequences. Years of continuation in the prison had cemented that belief until it was ingrained in his very core. Even the ones who challenged his authority learned swiftly that it was suicide. But now here it was, a strange fluttering sensation in his gut. Was he hungry? Possibly.
“I hate to rain on your parade, but this leaves us right in the shit,” Mike grumbled.
“How?”
“We’ve got no boats, we’ve got no fuel, we’ve lost the men who can pilot them. And worse, they know the bridge and will probably be watching it from now on.”
“So?”
“Jesus, Craig. Get your shit together. We needed that bridge to get at the food. We needed the boats to collect the gear. We needed fuel to fire the generator and stop the fucking riot about to break out. Now we’ve got none of it.”
“If anyone complains, I’ll just peel them.”
“Of course they’re going to complain. In a few weeks we’re all going to start starving to death. Shit, I’ll be complaining too!”
“What do you suggest, little brother?”
“At the moment I’ve got no idea, but we need to come up with a plan.”
“I still say we talk to her. If she does anything crazy, we’ll just kill her and go out guns blazing.”
“You won’t get close enough, they’ve got a zombie moat and a wall of mud thirty feet high.”
“Excuse me? Is that the morphine talking?”
“No, it’s their camp defences. It’s incredible what they’ve achieved.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to suck her dick.” Craig sneered. The infectious fear was grating, souring his already foul mood.