The Fall Series (Book 3): The Fence Walker

by Cross, Stephen

  They had it good here. A clearing in the forest on high ground. Excellent views for miles around. It was most beautiful in the morning when the mist sat on the trees, and their little elevation afforded a view over the soft cotton quilt of clouds, spiked with pine tops and swooping birds.

  A permanent set up, with crude alarm systems at the bottom of the rise. Continuous watches through an elaborate rota system. Hunting parties, supply scouting parties.

  The first few months had gone well, shown most plainly in the fact they had lost no-one since setting up the camp. Not one woman, man or child.

  People were starting to feel safe, as if they had a chance of building something again, of building a life. They developed relationships and care for their children beyond just keeping them alive. The noise Allen had enjoyed the most was the laughter of the kids in the camp as they played without fear.

  It made it all the more painful he had to leave.

  He pulled out the small, curled, fading picture of Adam on the beach. His blue board shorts, standing knee deep in the water, the breaking waves of the sea at Tulloch Bay behind him. His face full of laughter, his eyes glowing more than the blue water surrounding him. If only he’d known how amazing that day was when he was living it. So many days lost through careless lack of attention.

  There was a second cross on the map. A pencil cross. Tulloch Bay holiday park.

  If Adam was alive, that was where he would go, Allen was sure of it.

  He had spent so many weeks there with his boy. Playing on the beach, camping in the surrounding countryside, archery, riding horses, surfing. The time he had so precious. It was Adam’s favorite place in the world, and it was Allen’s.

  He wouldn’t rest until he knew. The pain of separation from his son was daily, potent and acute. Any avenue had to be followed and ticked off. This one hope that kept him alive since the Fall. He wasn’t a fool though, and had considered the park may be nothing now but a squirming hive of zeds.

  He would deal with that reality if it came to be.

  A hoot in the darkness made Allen jump. He was getting soft. There were other reasons he needed to go.

  It was thirty miles to Tulloch Bay holiday park. He could get there and back in a few weeks. They would be fine without him. Lewis and Singh would be enough to carry the camp. They had a system now. And systems always worked better than people.

  Sarah leaped up. Light peeked in through the zip of her tent, the dull glow behind the nylon telling her it was daylight. It was summer though, so it could be any time from four in the morning,

  The sound of movement outside, running feet, the unzipping of tents, and most tellingly, the rattle of tin cans.

  “Shut those cans up!” came a shout. It was Lewis, the young corporal.

  Sarah pulled on her jeans and top. A head popped through the flap of her tent. It was Crowe.

  “You up? Good,” he said. “We got contact, on the south perimeter.”

  Sarah grabbed her sword and scurried out of the tent. The camp, which had seemed a peaceful refuge since their arrival a few days ago, was now a bustling hive of activity. Parents ran with children to a central tent, around which stood many armed men and women. Baseball bats, sledgehammers, rifles held the other way round - their butts being the business end.

  Private Singh was by the ‘alert center’ - a complex arrangement of cans linked by strings that covered each area of the perimeter. The particular rattling cans would let you know which area of the permitter had been compromised. Experimentation had found the perfect height to distinguish actual zeds from the false positives of badgers, deer and other medium-sized wild animals that prowled the forest.

  Another line of cans began to rattle.

  “Anyone down by the east perimeter Corporal?” said Singh.

  “No? They rattling?”

  “Just started up.”

  “Shit,” said Lewis. “Where’s the Sarge?”

  “Here I am Lewis.” Sergeant Allen climbed out of his tent, carrying his rifle. He was buttoning up his tunic. “What have we got?”

  “Multiple hits,” said Lewis. “South and East.”

  “Well, Corporal, you know what to do.” Allen made no sign of moving.

  Lewis stood still for a moment, staring at the Sarge. Then, “Ok, Singh, take a team of five to the east and check it out.” Lewis turned to Crowe, Sarah, Abdul. “You three, come with me, we’ll check out the south.”

  They ran as a group down the hill, moving fast through the trees, down well-established paths. The sound from the camp faded quickly. Three others were with them, two men and one woman, all three in their thirties.

  The sun sprinkled through the dense covering of lush green leaves, scattering light like confetti across the forest floor. Birds tweeted manically as if warning the group of the impending danger.

  They crouched just before a clearing.

  “The wire is just…” said Lewis, pausing, “there…” Sarah peeked through the trees. Four zeds. No, five.

  Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. She had handled many more than this before.

  “Ok, slow,” said Lewis. “Let’s not get caught unawares. Crowe, Sarah, you two come with me, and we’ll take care of these guys. You good with that?”

  “Course,” said Crowe, smirking.

  If Lewis had seen the smirk, he ignored it. “Abdul, Johnny, Peter, Emma, you follow us and watch our backs.”

  They moved out slowly into the clearing. The sun beamed like a floodlight. On any other day, Sarah could imagine herself spreading out a picnic basket, cracking open the Prosecco and looking forward to a long and lazy drunk afternoon. But that was never going to happen again. She tightened the grip on her sword and moved slowly towards the nearest zed. With a well-practiced movement, she raised the blade and darted forwards. Her muscles tensed and she swung fast and strong. Hundreds of such strikes had honed her arms, chest and pectoral muscles. She was lithe and muscular, and fast. The blade dashed and glowed in the sun before meeting light resistance as it sliced effortlessly through the zed’s skull. The zed stumbled and fell like a toy switched off forever.

  She spun on the spot to check her surroundings. Another zed to her left. She went to strike, but a baseball bat hit its head, and she pulled her strike at the last moment, nodding at Crowe.

  Then silence. Sarah breathed deeply. Her heart beat fast against her chest. He palms were sweating. She scanned the clearing. Five unmoving figures on the floor. Ooze and black and red blood stained the formally pristine grass. The birds began to chirp again; if they had ever stopped - she wouldn't have known - she went somewhere when fighting… Someplace deep and tuned to her most visceral and immediate functions. Crowe called it being in the zone. Everything sharpened. Your vision, your hearing, your smell, your touch, your awareness. Your body tuned to keeping you alive, everything not necessary tuned out.

  She looked at Crowe; he had the same dazed look in his eyes, as did Lewis, as did all the others. A few seconds to return to the world, for the adrenaline and fear to dissipate.

  “Well done everyone,” said Lewis. “Let’s get the wire set again, and we’ll go see if they need any help at the south perimeter.”

  Sarah followed as Lewis led them through the bright woods. She was changing, she could feel it within her. She was becoming something suited to this world: a hunter, a fighter. A warrior, maybe? Whatever it was, it felt good. She felt safe; she realized she wasn’t afraid anymore. The pain was still there, of course. She didn't think that would ever go. The memory of her daughter, of her husband, of her family. With each day, however, it became easier to bear.

  Singh appeared ahead of him. His team behind them. Some covered in black blood.

  “You good?” said Lewis.

  “All good, sir,” said Singh. “Eight of them. No problem.”

  Sarah, Crowe, and Abdul joined Sergeant Allen in his tent. Sarah had expected something grander for Allen, imagining a large tent like the Arabian princes of old, colored rich ora
nge with tables and chairs stolen from John Lewis and carted by his loyal followers through woods and hills to enable his comfort.

  But of course, there was none of this. On reflection, she knew enough of Allen now to know that wasn’t his style. A five-man tent, not too small, not too large. Sparse. His back-pack and rifle sat next to his bed. A water can. A pile of clothes. Most people, herself included, personalized a space once they spent any length of time there. Back in the hospital, she had put up pictures of her daughter, and decorated her area with trinkets; she felt like a teenage girl doing it, but the draw to make somewhere her home was intense. She saw none of this in Allen’s tent. Sparse and functional. Pack up and run within minutes. With nothing to hold on to, there was nothing to lose. The soldier until the end.

  They sat in a tight circle.

  “Well done this morning,” said Allen, his gruff voice almost abrasive in the still air of the tent. He always sounded tired, as if he carrying something heavy wherever he went. She wondered what it was.

  “Lewis said you did well.”

  “We’re not green,” said Crowe. After a pause, he added, “sir.” Sarah didn’t know whether he had forgotten, or whether he was being insubordinate, annoyed his de-facto role as leader had been taken.

  “Never thought you were,” said Allen. “That’s why I have a proposal for you all.”

  Sarah exchanged glances with Abdul and Crowe.

  “Go on,” said Crowe.

  “You noticed I wasn't around this morning when we had the incursion.”

  “I did wonder,” said Crowe.

  “That was intentional. I wanted to let Lewis run things. He managed well, you think?”

  Sarah nodded.

  Allen reached into the inside pocket of his military camo jacket. He pulled out a small crease marked piece of paper. As he handed it to Sarah, she realized it was the photograph she had seen him look at, back on that first night.

  “That’s my son,” said Allen. “He’s called Adam, and he’s ten years old. He’ll be eleven next month. I’ve only kept track of the days so that I know when his birthdays are.”

  Sarah felt the loosely sealed gap in her own heart start to prise itself open. She passed the photo to Abdul.

  “I can’t give up looking for him. I’ve dragged these people halfway across the country, and I realize now my motives have been selfish. We lost a good number of people until we got to this camp. I should’ve found somewhere safe a long time ago. It would’ve saved lives.”

  “We do what we can, sir,” said Crowe.

  “Thirty miles from here is Tulloch Bay. It’s a seaside resort where the photo was taken. Any leave I got, that’s where me and Adam went. If he’s alive, that’s where he’ll have gone.”

  No one commented on the unlikeliness and desperation in this hope. Sarah had it herself. She still dreamed of going back to London to try and find her daughter, but life seemed to have dragged her further and further away.

  “I’m going to leave tomorrow. I’ve already spoken to Lewis and Singh. They’re not happy, but they’re going to stay here, they can look after everything. We have a good bunch of people.”

  Sarah knew what was coming. She glanced at Abdul, he knew too.

  “I’d like you all to come with me,” said Allen. “The chances of me making it on my own are slim. I was going to ask Crowe to come on his own, but I guess that you three won’t want to split. I wouldn’t expect you to either.”

  Crowe let out a small laugh. “You’ve just said this place is safe. Why’d we give that up and go back out there?”

  Allen shrugged. “You don’t have to. I’m asking, that’s all.”

  A sound from outside reached Sarah. The bustle of people talking, children playing, the sound of a kettle boiling. Laughter.

  She couldn’t stay here.

  “I’ll come,” said Sarah.

  Allen looked at her for a moment, a brief glimpse of surprise in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Wait a minute,” said Crowe.

  “Me too,” said Abdul.

  Crowe shook his head. “Well, there’s a surprise.”

  “Thanks, Abdul,” said Allen. He turned to Crowe. “So what about it, sergeant?”

  “Come on,” said Sarah, letting a smile grow on her lips. “You know you’d go crazy here.”

  “Fuck’s sakes,” said Crowe. He looked incredibly pissed off, making Sarah smile even harder. “Well, why not?” he said. “What’s the point of hanging onto a good thing?”

  “We’ll leave tomorrow morning, first light,” said Allen.

  Thirty miles used to take an hour or so by car through country roads. Just under thirty minutes if you were traveling on the motorway. Even less if going by train. By Plane, only a matter of minutes.

  Now, days.

  They had all experienced enough life in the Wilds to understand that the most obvious route wasn’t always the quickest; if you got dead, then you would never get there. For that reason Allen took them through back roads, traveling through woods and forests - it was hard for zeds to congregate amongst the trees; any more than a few and they would be tripping over branches, getting stuck in the undergrowth, falling into ditches, into streams, into thick nettle bushes. Allen guided them up and down hills; the zeds weren’t good with inclines, or declines; they struggled with their footing, and it slowed them down. Allen took them over rocky areas; the zeds couldn’t work out how to get around large outcrops or how to navigate an uneven rocky surface.

  “The only time I’ve seen hordes,” said Allen, “have been around tarmac, open fields.” It seemed the world that man built was poisoned - irradiated with the mark of the undead. Humans were being pushed back to the wild.

  On the fourth night, having made ten miles, they camped under a rocky outcrop on a steep hill in the moors. They sat around a campfire, the wood was mainly dry, so there was minimal smoke. Even so, Sarah found herself glancing at the thin column of light white with a degree of nervousness. Whether zeds recognized smoke as a sign of humans, she didn’t know, but she did know they liked anything out of the ordinary; bangs and brightness - maybe smoke too.

  Abdul was stirring a pot; Crowe had caught a rabbit earlier. Abdul had brought a few jars of spices with him. Even though food was food, it didn’t stop the familiar becoming boring. With no sauces and no veg, something was needed to make the rabbit palatable.

  “This mix is one my wife used to make,” said Abdul quietly. They always talked quietly. “Mainly on a Sunday. We would add tomatoes, onions, mushrooms and lots of other things that I can’t remember. She was the cook. I can only remember the spice mix. We made sure we sat together every Sunday for a meal. All six of us.”

  “That must have been good fun,” said Allen. “And hard work… I struggled enough with one.”

  Abdul smiled, although his eyes were glazed somewhat as if his thoughts elsewhere. “It was hard work, of course, it was. But, it was also wonderful.”

  They said nothing more. Moments of silence passed.

  A crack of a branch nearby.

  Allen held up his hand. He took to his feet slowly. Crowe went to move, but Allen stopped him with a shake of his head, then disappeared around the corner of the rocks.

  Sarah felt her heartbeat. How many? How close were they? Skittish was a word she could use to describe herself. Like the rabbit in the pot. Short, furtive movements, always scanning the horizon, always listening.

  A strange howl, like nothing Sarah had ever heard, erupted into the still evening. A cold spike of fear shot through her heart. She leaped up, grabbing her sword.

  “Wait here,” said Crowe.

  Sarah didn’t listen and followed Crowe as he moved with urgency towards the sound. Abdul was beside her.

  A figure appeared at the brow of the hill. Disfigured, malformed, a hideous growth on its shoulder. Sarah gasped and raised her sword, ready to strike.

  The figure moved forward, emerging out of the shadows. Sarah let out a sigh of rel
ief and laughed.

  It was Allen. Over his shoulder, he had the bloody body of a sheep. “Don’t know about you lot,” said Allen, “but I’m getting tired of rabbit.”

  “What’s this town called?” said Sarah.

  “Balinbridge,” said Allen.

  Every town, every hill, every river, stream, and copse of trees, Allen knew the name. He had a story for everywhere. He knew this area well, the approach to Tulloch Bay.

  “They have a little ice cream parlor in the town center,” he said. “Adam used to love the mint choc chip. I suppose he still does.”

  Sarah didn’t answer. Her daughter had loved raspberry ripple. Did love. Does love. No past tense. Keep everything in the present.

  Abdul and Crowe walked ahead, talking and laughing every now and again. The two had struck up an unlikely friendship over the past few months. The hardened and cynical army sergeant, and the jolly Midlands train conductor. She couldn’t imagine they would have ever met in a world before the Fall.

  “This time of year, Balinbridge would’ve been teeming with tourists,” said Allen. “You had to get here before nine in the morning if you wanted to park. Hard work getting a table in any of the cafes.”

  Sarah took in the small thatched cottages, the crooked houses, the thin roads that led through gardens exploding in color, their flowers allowed to run wild. Sarah could see the appeal; it held the promise of a simple world that used to be; a sharp juxtaposition to the hustle and confusion of any city. Now, it promised peace of a different sort. How easy would it be to find a house here, tucked away in the corner of some cul-de-sac, and while away your life growing veg, keeping animals, sitting by the fire in the evening and reading all the great books ever written. The world promised so much time now.

  But something would happen. Either an undead horde would wash through like a plague of locusts, or people - terrible and angry people, a gang hell-bent on repaying the world for its crime. They hadn’t seen any of these gangs yet, but Sarah was convinced they existed. Enough time had passed now, since the Fall, for people to have come together in a dangerous and frightening mass, the mismatched elements the perfect recipe to set the world to fire…