The Fall Series (Book 3): The Fence Walker

by Cross, Stephen

  “Hello,” whispered Adam.

  The badger snorted, turned and shuffled off in the opposite direction.

  Adam watched it disappear into the darkness, back to its badger life in the woods.

  That’s what he would do. He would stay in the woods. He could sneak around camp at night and find food and water. He could get himself a weapon and set up camp somewhere. He would survive and scurry and sneak in the dark. He would sleep during the day, somewhere safe, somewhere hidden, and no one would find him, except his Dad.

  Adam would know when the assault came, and he would be ready. He would help them take down Dalby from the inside.

  Sergeant Allen couldn’t sleep. It was Crowe’s watch, but Allen found no rest; he stared at the dark blue fabric of his tent as it rippled gently in the wind. The trees outside rustled, and every now and then, an owl called. Waves crashed below them. He loved being close to the world. His favorite army times had been the exercises that took him into the middle of the dales and hills and country. People in the UK always complained about the weather, but there was nothing wrong with the weather; just the clothes they were wearing or the kit they had or didn’t have. Allen loved the countryside of this fair and pleasant isle. Lush and barren, steady and dramatic. He didn’t need anything more.

  Allen, his thoughts sliced by the sound outside, sprang up, like a machine. Shots in the night, the distant crack crack of automatic gunfire, like November the fifth but without the whizz and bangs and colored lights. He quickly unzipped his tent, crawled out, and ran the short distance from their camp to the lookout over the drop to the beach and holiday park.

  Crowe turned as he approached. “Didn’t figure I’d need to come get you. Have a look this.” he passed the binoculars to Allen.

  Muzzle flashes from two apparent sides, one running, the other pursuing. In the dark, it was difficult to make out anything but the flashes. Allen watched for minutes, the gunfire out of sync with the white sparks from below.

  The frequency and fervor of the gunfight tailed off, the escaping group having the last shots.

  “That’s by the substation,” said Crowe.

  “They’re escaping,” said Allen.

  “Some are. Looks like they’ve got over the fence. Same route I took.”

  Allen kept still, his eyes glued to the binoculars.

  “What you want to do?” said Crowe.

  “How long for you to get down there?”

  “About fifteen minutes.”

  “You got a fix on the location?”

  “Yep.” Crowe was already pulling on his jacket and picking up his gun.

  More gunfire, coming from the pursuers.

  “Careful, there’s more of them,” said Allen.

  “I’m never anything but,” said Crowe. Without pause he leaped down the cliff edge, tracing a route to the bottom, one he had practiced many times in the light.

  Allen lifted his binoculars again, following the pursuing gunfire. It didn’t last long.

  Crowe wasn’t a tracker. He didn’t pretend to be either. He had watched all the usual programs, with the special ex-forces guy sniffing bird shit and being able to tell which way his prey had gone, but that wasn’t Crowe. Luckily he didn’t have to be. Whoever had escaped from the holiday camp wasn’t a fucking Ninja either.

  Fifteen minutes was all it had taken him to get to the site of the firefight. He had dodged two zombies on the way down. He crouched at the tree line. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. No soldier could be seen. From what Crowe had seen of them, he made the assumption they would have given a quick once over, maybe fanned into the trees for a few minutes, got scared, and retreated. We lost them, sir. Chased them for miles. Couldn’t find them. Too many zombies. All of that shit.

  Even so, Crowe wasn’t going to blow his cover. He moved slowly around the tree line, hoping for some obvious sign of disturbance. Just as he hoped; more elephant that ninja. A big bush with broken branches and flattened grass. Crowe set off in the direction he assumed that breakage in the tree line would take anyone fleeing for their lives. They would move fast, they would take the route of least resistance.

  It was another two minutes before he found his next clue. Heavy and fresh footprints by the side of a small creek. Muddled and uncertain. Water poured in slowly through the top of one of them, satisfying him that the prints were recent additions to the bank.

  He continued into the darkness. How long would they run for? The adrenaline burst would keep them going for a while, like machines on turbo. But once the crash came, it would hit hard. He looked at his watch. It was thirty minutes since the firefight.

  A sound in the dark and Crowe fell into a crouching position like he had been dropped from a plane. No thinking.

  It was a clicking sound, accompanied by the breaking of branches and the squidge of undergrowth. If it was clicking it meant it was excited. If it was excited, it meant it had its sights on something. Crowe crawled deftly towards the sound. He took out his gun and held it loosely in his hands by the barrel, ready to use the butt as a club.

  A dark shadow pushed through the undergrowth. Clicking like an out of control clock. It moved with purpose, not the languid meanderings of a zombie at rest (if they ever found rest).

  Crowe followed for a minute, two minutes, then it happened, as he hoped it would.

  Another shadow emerged from the dark, quick, fast. It swung something big and heavy into the skull of the zombie. There was audible crack and the zombie, now silent, fell to the ground.

  “Got it,” said the shadow in a hushed voice, but loud enough to carry.

  Crowe followed the figure as it returned to a shallow dip in the ground, surrounded on three sides by towering oak trees. Crowe nodded to himself; a good spot to recoup. Just have to keep their eyes open for zombies; which they seemed to have covered.

  As the shadow joined a group of other shadows, a rushed conversation of whispers ensued. Crowe, hiding only ten feet away, managed to catch a few words. ‘Adam’ was one that happened over and over. It was a woman’s voice speaking; she sounded harried, upset.

  Crowe thought carefully. Unless he did precisely the right thing, he could be killed before they knew what they were doing.

  He took one last glance around to make sure there were no more zeds, then tucked his gun into his backpack. He stood up from the hiding place, holding his arms up above his head.

  Clearly, slowly, enunciating every word carefully, he said, “I can help you find Adam.”

  A flurry of activity. The click of safeties. Guns being moved into position. People standing. A torch burned into the night, blinding Crowe.

  “Don’t fucking move!” said a voice.

  “I’m with Sergeant Allen.”

  “Down on the ground!” shouted the same voice.

  “Wait!” It was the woman.

  Crowe got into a kneeling position. “Me and Sergeant Allen watched the firefight from the hill, up there. We’ve come to get Adam.”

  “Tell me why we shouldn’t shoot you now,” said another man’s voice.

  Crowe directed his voice towards the silhouette he thought was the woman. “Sergeant Allen used to come here with his boy. Allen is divorced. He’s done four tours of Afghanistan, and two of Iraq. He’s been here with Adam every summer since he was four.”

  “You were traveling with a woman called Sandra?” said the woman.

  Crowe smiled. Clever. “No. With Sarah. Where is she? She with you?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Crowe.”

  A few huddled whispers. The torch was lowered.

  “Sarah didn’t make it. Dalby killed her.”

  Crowe closed his eyes. The pain began to rush in. It surprised him, it was like he had been hit by something heavy, and hard. And like all the pain he carried, he quickly funneled it into that special place in his mind, right at the back, where all the bad shit and crap was kept, where he didn’t ever go. It was dark, they wouldn’t see the tear
s spilling out of his eyes. He worked hard to get to his feet.

  “Come on,” managed Crowe. “I can take you to Allen.”

  The middle of the night. The air was still and clear. Every now and again Adam heard an owl hoot from somewhere deep in the woods. His breath turned into steam in front of his face, but it wasn’t that cold, somehow. The moon was quarter full, its light tempered by fast-moving wispy black clouds.

  And no people. That was the critical thing.

  Well, only the soldiers. Adam snorted to himself. He was watching one now, one of the so-called soldiers. He thought it was funny and a little disrespectful that they called themselves that. They thought because they put on a green uniform and carried a gun they could be a soldier.

  The term meant a lot more than that to Adam. It meant a man of integrity. A man of strength of character who didn’t let anything get in his way. A man who knew the difference between right and wrong and who would uphold those ideals. A brave man. Like his Dad.

  Not these idiots.

  The one Adam was watching stared into his phone. Now that the power had been put back on, everyone was back to staring at their phones. Playing whatever stupid games they had downloaded. Scrolling through their photos. That was ok, thought Adam. But not the games. He’d never got into computer games. They don’t teach you anything apart from how to move your fingers, said his Dad. They won't protect you when the shit hits the fan. You know how to start a fire, build a camp? Those are the things that will keep you alive.

  And they had.

  The soldier turned a little, mostly his back to Adam now. Adam had a clear run to the building that Adam knew housed the food stores.

  Be quick, never hesitate.

  Adam scurried from his hiding place behind the corner of a nearby chalet and, light of foot, he quickly covered the distance to the food stores. He followed the wall to the back of the building, out of sight of the soldier.

  Not seen, not heard.

  Adam could have hidden in a hole and cried after the gunfight and getting lost. But that wouldn’t have done him any good. He needed to recharge, and that meant food and sleep. He could sleep anywhere, but he had to find food.

  A small window in the food stores was open. Adam hoisted himself up. He pushed it wide and squeezed through. Any bigger and he wouldn’t fit. Being small sometimes had its advantages.

  He dropped to the floor, bending his knees to soften the landing and reduce the sound. Dark shadows of packets of powdered food and tins. The fridge hummed, stored with fresh fish and animal carcasses.

  Adam quickly filled his bag with some tins from different piles. He took one rabbit.

  He climbed out of the window. Dropped to the floor. Silence. Pushed off to a nearby chalet and then he was lost again in the back gardens and alleyways of the holiday camp.

  The whole excursion had taken less than 5 minutes. His Dad would have no trouble taking this place.

  Adam stopped dead. He was in a chalet garden, and light erupted from its back window, throwing a square of orange-yellow onto the backyard. Adam was still in darkness, but only by a few feet. He quickly threw himself back against the wall.

  Shouting from the chalet. Three figures in the window.

  He should have been completing his mission, and he should have ignored the ruckus, and he should have run, but something compelled him to look through the window. Like he was meant to be there to help, or something. He was probably being stupid, and his Dad would have told him off, but he had to look.

  Two women and a man. A baby in one of the woman’s arms. The woman with the baby was holding up a gun and pointing it at the other two. Their voices were clear in the night.

  “He’s mine, you can’t take him from me anymore.”

  “Ellie,” said the man. “It’s not up to us, or you. Dalby has said that he has to stay with us.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what Dalby says!” shouted the woman, making Adam jump.

  “Come on, Ellie,” said the other woman in a soft voice. “Pass him back. We can look after him. Let’s speak to Dalby in the morning.”

  Ellie backed towards the door.

  “We can’t let you take him,” said the man, his voice taking an ominous tone. Adam studied the man. He was tense, his body was shifting, he was getting ready to move. Adam picked up a rock from the ground.

  “What’re you going to do Ellie, shoot us both?”

  “If I have to,” said Ellie, but her voice was soft, weak. She was nearing the door. Another few steps and she would be there.

  “I don’t think you will. Last chance…”

  “Fuck you,” said Ellie. She turned and ran for the door.

  The man bolted forward. The next actions from Adam were without thought. The best actions come from muscle memory, from your body knowing what to do and from reacting immediately. Adam threw the rock against the window. Glass shattered and fell into the chalet. Adam didn’t wait to see the aftermath, but ran around the side of the chalet to the door, to meet Ellie.

  “Quick, this way!” he shouted.

  Ellie stared at Adam for a second, a dumbfounded look on her face.

  “Quickly!”

  She ran towards Adam.

  “This way,” he guided her back the way he had arrived. He ducked under a hedge, he heard her behind him. Into an alley, across it, into a back garden, over a fence to another; he took the baby as Ellie climbed.

  Just keep moving, don’t look back. Don’t worry about being caught, just assume you won't be.

  And they weren’t.

  It was still the middle of the night when Adam, Ellie, and young Eddy were deep in the woods, lost and unknown. Unfound and safe.

  Chapter 22

  Chris hitched his pack over his shoulder and walked forward with purpose. The butt of his gun raised. He brought it down hard on the nearest zombie, its skull cracking with a satisfying thud. Grey bits of brain and whatever spilled out like that play slime he used to have as a kid, the stuff he played with around at Nan’s.

  He did the other three zombies just the same. Dumb fucks. The empty farm outhouse echoed with their dying moans and the thud of Chris’ boots. The symphony finished with a triumphant cry.

  “Check out them fuckers,” said Chris. “Fucking nailed now, aren’t they!” He laughed, turning to his men. Say that again. HIS men. Two of them. All under his control. Like it should be. They did what he said. Even old Gerry, that mean old fuck. He was one of them that was nasty to everyone, except those who had power, then he was a sniveling yes-sir little prick.

  “Hey Gerry,” said Chris. “You need to clean this shit up.”

  “How come?”

  “Cause we’re sleeping here tonight, soft bollocks.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Gerry dragged his old legs to the middle of the farmhouse and began dragging the zombie corpse outside.

  “Get them brains n’all, don’t want to be smelling that shit when I’m trying to get me kip, do I?” said Chris.

  He looked at the other man, Brad. He was alright. Chris smirked at him, nodding at Gerry as he kicked a piece of brain along the floor. Brad smirked back. ‘Course he did, Chris was the fucking boss.

  “Right,” said Chris, kneeling down and getting the map out. “While old bollocks sorts out the zombie shit, let’s have a look over tomorrow, eh?”

  He spread out the ordinance survey map. Several areas were shaded in grey marker. Segments slowly making up a full circle about half a mile deep circling the camp. Tomorrow’s segment would see the end of that, then they would spread out further. Still no sign of Sergeant Bollocks and his rebels. They’d find them though.

  What will you do when you find him? Kill more people?

  Whatever Nan, said Chris to his ever-present companion. Just shut it will ya.

  Don’t talk to your Nan like that. You’re becoming a nasty piece of work.

  Just shut it! Shut the fuck up you silly old tart!

  Chris… You know how to hurt your old Nan, don’t you
? My little boy…

  “…Sir?”

  It was Brad.

  “What?”

  “You alright sir?”

  “‘Course I’m alright.” Chris looked back at the map. “Just pay attention. This bit here, we’re covering it tomorrow.”

  “What if they’ve seen us coming, and we’ve missed them, sir?” said Brad.

  “They’ll have a fucking camp, won’t they? They won’t be able to move that shit quickly, will they?” Chris shook his head. Stupid bastard.

  “Fucking hell!” It was Gerry. Chris turned to see the stupid old bastard frantically shaking his hand, black gloop flying from it.

  “What you done, soft bollocks?” said Chris.

  “Me hand went through its leg!”

  A decomposed leg lay beside Gerry, old and rotten flesh hanging loosely off the bone.

  Chris laughed, Brad joined in.

  “Careful wiping your fucking arse, you daft old bastard!”

  “What if I’ve got a cut?” said Gerry, wiping his hand against the door frame.

  “That’s a point,” said Chris. “You’d best sleep outside tonight. Don’t want you fucking turning in the middle of the night and eating my fucking face, do we, nobhead?”

  “What? I can’t sleep out there! Those things will be-”

  “You fucking can if I say you can!” said Chris, standing up.

  Gerry opened his mouth, then closed it. Then said, “Sure, sir. You’re right.” He went to leave the barn.

  “Hey, nobhead, don't forget your mate!” said Chris motioning to the last corpse on the floor.

  Laughter again.

  Gerry dragged the corpse by the other leg, moving slowly, his face creased in worry.

  “Come on,” shouted Chris. “Let’s get this hurried up and do our rounds so we can get some sleep.” He shook his head.

  Abdul was on his own in the Wilds. He was tired, he had hardly slept. It was hard to sleep when you’re terrified. Hard to eat when your stomach is in knots. He wasn’t built for this, he knew that.

  The nights were the worst. He was trying to sleep behind the wall in an open field. He didn’t like the woods. The zeds were threaded through the trees like a, well, like a virus. You never knew when you would turn a corner and one would jump out from behind a tree, or there was one stuck under a log, or there was a handful in some dip that you didn’t see until you were down it. Moaning that terrible way they did like devils.