by Fleet, Ricky
A wave of her hand and Jonesy pulled the lever in the idling beast’s cab, silencing his whine. The hook rose, and Vincent was hoisted two feet off the ground. Hemp biting, his compressed throat issued a croaky gurgle as the eyes bugged. Trying to get his hands free to remove the strangling force from around his neck, the arms twisted ineffectually behind his back, bound tightly. A ragged choking escaped foam flecked lips and the suspended feet started to bend and lash out, desperately searching for solid ground that wasn’t there.
“How long?” asked Denise.
“Leave him for thirty seconds. It won’t kill him.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Vincent’s tongue was being forced from his mouth, the face starting to redden from the building pressure. An awful throttled, rattling sound replaced the choking as the airway was completely sealed by the tightening ligature. As life started to ebb away, the body tried thrashing in one last attempt to be free of the deadly noose. Finally passing out, Vincent’s face turned a dark purple and the legs stopped kicking.
“Drop him!” Christina ordered.
A whine of hydraulics and the body lowered to the ground. Pulling on the rope, blood ran from the abrasions around his neck. Although still unconscious, Vincent’s lungs sucked in deeply through the open airway and his face took on a healthier pallor.
“Get him on the table.”
Jonesy hopped down and helped DB manhandle the spasming figure as he returned to consciousness. A rope was firmly secured around his feet and another beneath the armpits. Tying one end to the towing hook of the Land Rover, the second was secured to the solid body of the crane.
“Nobody has to watch this. It’s not going to be pleasant,” Christina warned.
Jodi and Peter made themselves scarce with an apology. Everyone else was going to see the punishment through to the end. Cutting through the fabric of his jumper with a pair of scissors, she tossed the rags aside.
“Please,” he wheezed through the damaged throat.
A moment of doubt passed through Christina. It was one thing to perform autopsies and open up the dead. It was quite another to do the same to a living being. The faces of Jasmine and Patricia flashed through her mind, their needless suffering, their lives cut short. It was enough. Forcing a pair of used socks into his mouth, she motioned for Denise to roll forward in the four by four. The ropes creaked, pulling taut and holding Vincent down tightly on the flat wood. Eyes begging for mercy, he was ignored. Picking up a straight razor, she deftly cut a cross shape across his abdomen through the skin and muscle. Screaming into the stinking socks, it came out as a dull moan. Peeling the bloody flaps back, she clutched slimy entrails and started to yank them from the body cavity. Slopping to the ground in a stringy pile, steam started to rise from the uncoiled gore. The soldiers looked away. Sarah was stoic, glaring at the dying man. Gloria was saying a quiet prayer, for herself as well as the murderer.
“Time to go to Hell,” said Christina, finishing her work in the now empty trunk.
Denise saw the nod and revved the engine as hard as she could, before letting up on the clutch. The powerful vehicle lurched forward, and the incisions tore down the fading killer’s flanks. A pop of separating spinal vertebrae preceded the two halves of his body tearing apart, dropping from the bloodied table in a welter of viscera. Sarah vomited. Gloria closed her eyes.
“Don’t hate me,” Christina whispered to DB.
“I could never hate you, love,” he assured her, trying to ignore the smells of shit and blood. “This needed to be done.”
“And you don’t care that it was me who did it?”
“I wouldn’t have the… stomach for it,” he replied, catching sight of the dead man’s bloated organs on the wet ground. He joined Sarah in throwing up his breakfast.
A low groan came from the end of the table and Christina peered over. Vincent had reanimated, biting vacuously on the dry material in his mouth.
“Here, let me,” offered Jonesy, pulling his sidearm.
“No, he doesn’t deserve that,” growled DB, regaining control of his churning belly. Untying the rope, he commenced pulling the bisected corpse behind him. They watched the zombified curator’s head bump from each stone step as DB reached the wall. Without preamble, DB picked him up and tossed the remains from the wall. Brushing his hands together to signify a job done, he re-joined them and helped with the cleaning.
“Oy! What did I tell you two?” Sarah shouted, causing Sam and Braiden to retreat from their hiding place back into the castle.
“Damn!” Denise shook her head.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve seen them,” said Jonesy.
Listening to the rapid crunch of feet on gravel, she made a mental note to pull them aside later. Her own dreams would suffer from the execution, so goodness knows how it would affect her children. Returning to the task at hand, she gingerly filled the bucket with the slimy, uncooperative intestines.
“Are you ok?” Denise asked, pulling the legs behind her to the unlit pyre.
“Yes and no. The easy bit’s done, the hard bit’s still to come.”
“We’ll get that food safely. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Your street sense or just wishful thinking?”
Denise wasn’t sure and fell silent. Holding a lighter to the rolled-up newspaper under the kindling, the fire quickly spread to the bloody remains. The heat banished the chill of the day but couldn’t thaw the ice in their souls.
Chapter 37
Jonesy turned from the wall and placed a few small logs into the brazier. Removing his gloves, he warmed frigid hands on the resurgent flames. Placing the cold gloves on the back of his chair, he shifted it so that some of the radiated heat would absorb before he put them back on.
In the courtyard below, thick foam targets from the archery shop were being riddled with arrows. Pea had a natural affinity with her new bow and scored bullseyes with each snap of the taut string. An archery room had been set up containing the vast supply of equipment retrieved from the store. Thousands of arrows, and enough weapons to cover the whole castle and then some, were neatly arranged in the new racking that Bob had helped to build. Winston spent his spare time reading the literature which had been secured, most notably on the weird contraption for repairing and restringing the bows. Sam and Braiden were leading the tuition outside, offering advice and guidance to the adults who came to try their luck.
The remaining rebels were stood to one side of the freezing yard, looking on during a break in their guard roster. Jonesy had forgiven them in part, but the trust was gone forever. For some, it was a weakness in the human condition. The need to try and get others to do the hard work while expecting the rewards. He had seen the results on council estates up and down the country. Houses with empty driveways, the occupants working double shifts. While next door, the chain smoking mother of six children waited for her next round of handouts while watching daytime TV. In the old world it could be hidden and glossed over with more taxes. In the new world, it meant death.
“Ridiculous,” Jonesy spat.
Braiden hurled expletives across to the miserable looking bunch, but Sam took it upon himself to talk to them. Shame turned to eagerness as the youth led them inside to collect some weapons. Braiden scowled darkly before returning his attention to his own group. Jonesy grinned to himself. Damn, he loved those kids. They completed each other, like the two sides of a taijitu. Braiden the yin; dark, though not passive as the cosmology suggested. He was the fire, the anger, the controlled power in the pair. Sam was the yang; light, and fully active in bringing good to the world. His compassion was in some ways a weakness, yet he was never shy in fighting for what he believed in. Every act by the youngsters reaffirmed his decision to leave the barracks behind. The fear of an artillery strike was never far from Jonesy’s mind. On the nights he would dream, it wasn’t unusual for him to jerk awake, swearing the whine was that of a dropping shell. So far it had only been Bob’s nas
al passages, thank the gods.
Loaded with gear and a spare target, Sam emerged from the castle and led them through the upper bailey gate into the peace of the castle gardens. The ashes of the pyre were still smouldering, but the scene of execution had been cleaned of blood in case anyone came to look.
In all likelihood, Sam had picked the site to escape the well-earned abuse of his sibling which still flew over the wall.
“Little bugger,” he said with affection towards the fiery youth.
Reclaiming the toasty gloves, Jonesy slipped them on and sighed with contentment. Contentment quickly turned to discomfort as the heat started to burn his skin from the sudden change in temperature. Waving them in the wintry air, they quickly reached a comfortable level and he returned to the watch. Surveying the white sheened landscape, he felt at peace. For now, anyway. The battle to come with the prison had started, but in a way that had helped. The breakaway faction could finally see that cooperation and hard work were the only way they would survive in the long term. A constant reminder sat just outside the walls, embodied by the smashed cab of the armoured lorry. They would probably carry the label of outsiders forever, but at least they were finally contributing. Whether it would be enough in the long term, he couldn’t say. With their attack thwarted, the prisoners would waste no time in thinking of more devious ways to strike at the castle. Mr Vincent’s betrayal was thankfully, as painful as it was to say, an inside job. If the convicts had managed to sneak inside, they would have been far more ruthless than the cowardly curator. Their newfound watchfulness was a steep price to pay for one of their beloved friends.
“Rest well, Patricia, love,” he whispered.
The incredibly brave American was gone, but would never be forgotten. Denise had taken it hard and spent most of her time at Patricia’s side in the chapel, recounting memories of their fond times together. The funeral was being arranged and would take place tomorrow, with the remains being laid to rest with the other heroes in the crypts below. A fitting resting place for a warrior, Jonesy thought. Wiping wet eyes, he sniffed forcefully to drag the surfacing emotions back inside. He had to stay strong. Always.
Turning around, he glared at the portion of wall where Mr Vincent now lived. Although blocked by ten foot thick stone, he conjured an image of the hated face. I’ll kill him tonight, he thought. DB knew of the plan and told him to let it go, arguing that eternity as half a zombie was a just punishment. Jonesy disagreed. Without certainty one way or the other about God, Heaven, Hell, and all the other religious stuff, he couldn’t shake the idea that Mr Vincent’s black soul was stuck inside that fumbling carcass outside. Eternity in the beautiful English countryside, even as a zombie, was unacceptable. Jonesy needed to be sure that the final judgement came and that the murderer felt the agonies of torment which he so richly deserved. It was a compulsion which had taken over completely.
“Not long now,” he said to himself. A single shot through the top of the balding head would come in a few short hours.
Attuned to the unceasing groan of the undead, another noise presented itself. It was so faint that at first he was convinced it to be just a figment of his imagination. The roads leading south towards the prison were completely empty, but he was damned if he couldn’t hear the low growl of a powerful engine approaching. Blowing a whistle as a precaution, the castle came alive with frenzied movement. In under a minute, the entire perimeter was filled with watchful eyes and readied bows.
“What is it?” asked Sarah as she reached the tower.
Her breathing was measured and there was no sweat on her brow, only lines of worry. The worldwide fitness level must be higher than it’s ever been, Jonesy mused.
“I thought I heard an engine.”
“Do you think they’d be stupid enough to attack again?”
“They might’ve had some plating left over. They’re armed, which means I wouldn’t put it past them to come at us with an armoured vehicle and take some pot-shots.”
“Is it likely?”
“They’d have to be morons to attempt it.”
“Then it’s something else,” Sarah replied, trying to pinpoint the growing rumble.
“I think it’s coming from the west, but I can’t be sure. If the bloody zombies would shut the fuck up for a minute, I could hear better,” Jonesy shouted, the last part aimed at the rotters below.
“I think you’re right,” Sarah agreed. “I can’t see anything, though. The buildings are too close together.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it sounds like…”
“Like what?”
Jonesy closed his eyes to try and tune in better to the throaty grumble of the engine. No, engines. Plural. There were… two. Damn his shitty hearing and the annoying tinnitus which added a shrill whine to it. Could the prison be trying their trick from another direction on the main gate?
Sarah persisted. “Like what, Jonesy.”
The tone was achingly familiar. Eyes snapping open, he felt his stomach drop. “Get everyone inside. Douse the fires and then hide!”
“What is it?” asked Sarah. The stark change in her friend’s demeanour was unnerving. He looked terrified.
“Just do it! Those engines are Warthogs. It’s got to be Baxter!”
“Oh Christ!” Sarah’s face dropped and she headed for the steps. “What can we do?”
“Against those beasts? Nothing except hide and pray they pass us by.”
“Is it likely?”
“No. They’ve found us somehow.”
“We can always run?” she suggested desperately.
“They’d chase us down inside ten minutes. We need to pray the gates hold and we can keep them at bay with the weapons we have.”
“God help us.”
Watching as she disappeared from view, Jonesy circled the tower to locate DB. “Get everyone inside. It’s Baxter!”
“What? Hold up, I’ll be right there!”
DB sprinted along the wall, no mean feat for someone as bulky and powerful as he was. Barking orders at the others to take cover inside the main castle, he vanished from sight through one of the dark archways. The sounds of the approaching vehicles were growing louder by the second.
“Where are they?” DB demanded and Jonesy pointed to the west.
Taking a knee, both readied rifles and peered down the scopes at the distant roads and their meandering dead. One drew more attention from the zombies than the others.
“There! The road parallel to the river!”
Jonesy swung the scope and watched as the crowd started to move towards the disturbance. The peaceful day was shattered by the slow, heavy crack of heavy machine gun fire. Weak bodies were torn apart and the road surface spat up large chunks of tarmac from the high velocity rounds. Windows imploded and the stonework of the homes was pocked with the barrage. The whine of ricochets could be heard across the miles.
“They’ve come ready for a war,” Jonesy sighed. It was all over.
“We kill as many as we can. If Baxter’s with them, he gets it first.”
“Whatever happens, they go back with fewer traitors than they set out with.” Jonesy growled. All their work. All their effort, undone by a lunatic officer who couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. You’re dead, Baxter. Even if you cut me in half, I’ll see you die first, Jonesy vowed.
Through the devastation, the first Warthog trundled into view. Any zombie unlucky enough to get in the way was crushed beneath the unyielding caterpillar tracks.
“No fucking way!” DB exclaimed as the turret gunner came into view. “It’s Beth!”
“Eldridge?” Jonesy gasped, seeing for himself as the young soldier cut another group down with the long barrelled L111A1 machine gun.
“How’s this possible?”
“Do you think they escaped?”
“With vehicles? I doubt it.”
“We can ask them when they get here,” Jonesy said, whooping with joy.
DB circled the tower and looked down at th
e scrambling figures. “It’s ok! They’re friendlies!”
Forgotten in the overwhelming relief was a major hurdle to the reunion. “One thing, brother. How the hell are they going to get in?”
“Oh shit” DB considered the problem, looking around frantically for a solution. “They won’t be able to until we can clear the gatehouse.”
“That’ll take hours, probably longer.”
“Let’s just get them to the wall first, then we can worry about opening up.”
“We’ll direct them round to the north and they can come in via the ropes.”
“That’ll work.”
During a lull in the firefight on the streets below, DB gave vent to an intense whistle and watched for a reaction. Eldridge stopped glaring at the dead and shouted an order over her shoulder. Rumbling into view came the second Warthog, with Holbeck riding the gun. His lips moved and a pair of binoculars were handed up through the hatch. DB repeated the shrill call and the probing lenses found him atop the tallest tower. Both men’s lips parted into a massive smile and the sergeant gave the slightest of nods in pride. Circling his hand in a counter clockwise direction, DB waited to see if the instruction was clear enough. As the lead APC reached the perimeter gatehouse to the south, Holbeck spoke into the radio. Veering away from the opening and the long snaking road that led to the main courtyard, the driver headed east. Even if they hadn’t understood his gesture, the thousands of waiting creatures were enough to redirect the approach.
“They got the message,” said Jonesy, following them with his scope.
“Can they see the track marks?”
“Yeah, they’re following the route Winston and that prick in the lorry took.”
“Happy days! Let’s go and find out what the hell’s going on.”
Chapter 38
“Does this mean we’re even?” asked Fred.
“Where’s the Scot? Where’s Hay?” said Lennie.
“He… erm. He escaped while we took the place.”
“Then there’s no deal,” said the Gypsy, turning to walk away.