The Fall Series (Book 3): The Fence Walker

by Cross, Stephen

  He had nearly been got that first night. Pitched his tent by a stream, as good a place as any, the sort of place that the survival men on TV would have pitched their tents. But then, when they made their programs, they didn’t have to worry about the undead. Streams were at the lowest parts. The zombies always ended up in the lowest parts. They didn’t like to walk up, so they went downhill, like water. Like streams.

  It was lucky he hadn’t been asleep. He had just got the tent up when he had heard them. The moaning and the clicking. The clicking meant they were excited; they had seen him, or smelt him, or whatever it was they did. So he had run, without his tent, but managed to grab his sleeping and survival bags. Crowe had taught them never to unpack more than you needed at that moment. That way, if you had to run, you wouldn’t be leaving behind too much.

  So he still had his baseball bat. He still had changes of clothes. Still had his sleeping bag. Still had some food. No tent though.

  So here he was, no tent and tucked in behind a stone wall, nice open field so he could see them coming. But then he had to be awake to see them coming. Sleep was impossible. When would he sleep? Where would he sleep?

  This was stupid.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Abdul crawled out of his sleeping bag and rolled up it. He tied it to his backpack. Find a farmhouse, a shed, a car. Something that he could at least close. Lying there next to the wall, they would have him within seconds. He wouldn’t know a thing about it until he woke up, his neck half chewed off. He hadn’t come this far to be eaten in his sleep.

  He lifted his legs through the thick soil of the field. Hard work, this walking, but he was used to it. It’s all he had done for nearly a year. He smiled as he remembered his old self; round, fat, chubby. Too many calories and too much comfort. He remembered his wife and his children. The photo was in his pocket still, his five kids with him in the middle. They could be alive somewhere. No reason why not. He had to think like that, that one day he might find them again. A pain in his stomach; that was reality kicking him in the gut. They were dead, gone, eaten, undead.

  Tears in his eyes as he plowed on through the field. He was alone. He’d never been so alone.

  That’s why he thought the voices he heard were just figments of his imagination. Ghost figures dreamed up by a lonely soul.

  But they persisted, and they got closer and louder. They were from the nearby copse of trees. And they were coarse, not the sort of voices Abdul would have dreamed up to keep him company.

  Plenty of swearing. Broad vowels. Scary in the dark; like most things. Voices of pending doom, a series of Shakespearean devils mutated and grotesque marauding through the fields, looking for life to suck.

  That was why he tried to hide, but his movements were too quick and he tripped over a branch. He fell forward and pushed against the dry stone wall to try and steady himself. But it was old, and the stones gave way, collapsing in a noisy heap, the heavy clicks of the rocks banging against each other like a series of cheap fireworks, dull bangers with no lights.

  The voices stopped. Then a cry, “Hey, stop!”

  Abdul forced himself up, and he ran. He was in the middle of a field, so there was nowhere to hide. The moon was out and they - his distant pursuers - no doubt had a good view of his dark shadow as it sprinted, barely, across the open field.

  He glanced behind him, just for a second, just enough to see movement from the edge of the trees.

  His legs pumped viciously against his tiredness, driven on by fear.

  Then there was the shot. A sharp crack in the night, then its remains like thunder, echoing against the sky. Abdul fell to the ground. Not because he had been hit, but because the fear in his body had shut him down, just for a second, enough to cause him to fall face first into the thick wet mud. Was this how it was going to end? His face covered in mud, cheeks stained with the tears he shed for the love of his family.

  He lay still, not moving, not because he thought it fruitless to run, but because he was tired. Tired of fighting every day, tired of not knowing what was going to happen in the next hour; tired of living with the gnawing agony of the pain he had for his children.

  Let them come, let them do what they may.

  No more shots, just dull thuds and the gentle rustle of grass, getting louder as the men approached.

  “Who are you?” shouted an approaching voice. Strong Liverpool accent.

  Abdul didn’t move. His face on its side, the wet dirt clinging to his skin.

  “Hey, I asked you a question nobhead?” The voice was right above him now. He heard the heavy breathing of the talking man’s companions.

  Still, Abdul didn’t answer.

  “Maybe you shot him,” said another voice.

  “No, he’s alive.”

  A sudden and sharp pain in his back. Abdul jerked and turned rolled over in time to see the man take another kick at him. This time it hit him in the side. He grabbed his abdomen.

  “What the fuck you doing? Playing dead? What the fuck you think you are, some stupid animal? Playing dead don’t work nobhead. Get up!”

  Abdul tried to move. He was ready to accept commands, life was easier that way. He was in too much pain to move. A hand grabbed his hand and yanked.

  “I said get up!”

  Another hand grabbed his other arm, and he was pulled to his feet. His body wanted to remain curled on the floor, but it wasn’t allowed. Marched across the muddy field, he struggled to keep on his feet. He didn’t want to fall in the dirt again.

  “That’s it nobhead, keep moving.”

  He was dragged towards the trees, towards the dark.

  Cool fresh morning. Jack took point as they pushed through the woods. That’s what they called it in the films, isn’t it? Point, when you were the leader, when you were at the front of the column. That was another one, the column. A fancy name for a line of people.

  Not much of a column, then. Only Jack, with his daughter on his shoulders, and Grace behind.

  “Careful daddy!” said Annie.

  Jack ducked under the overhanging tree branch. “You clear?”

  “Just about!”

  They were on their way to a nearby village, one that might have some supplies said Grace. They were low on some tinned basics. The rabbits she caught were good, but not enough. She explained that a team of RAF pilots in the second world war had died from malnutrition, living off nothing but rabbits. Not enough vitamins or something. Grace had been a scientist, so he figured she would know these sorts of things.

  “How long ’til we get there?” said Annie.

  “What do you think Grace?”

  “Another twenty minutes.”

  They didn’t reach the village.

  The man’s scream was blood-curdling. Like some foreign animal caught in the throes of death. Sounded like a hyena Jack had seen on a David Attenborough program; it was skewed by a buffalo. The hyena had got too close to one of the calves, and the buffalo had flipped, the ordinarily passive animal turning into a vicious and unstoppable two-tonne meat machine of death. The hyena had been ripped to shreds in seconds, just enough time for its dying breaths to explode like a banshee.

  That was what the scream sounded like.

  Jack ducked, his eyes darting through the fresh green leaves of the trees and lush undergrowth.

  “What the fuck was that?” said Grace.

  “We go look?’ He said, surprising himself. Grace too, by the look on her face. He almost saw a smile, the first of the day from her.

  “Ok,” she said.

  Jack turned to Annie. “Stay right behind me, hold onto the straps of my back. If you can’t keep up, or you see anything, pull, ok?”

  Annie nodded. She didn’t look scared; she looked trusting.

  They crept towards the sound, somewhere vaguely ahead. New sounds came as they crawled alone. No more terrible screams, but a few whimpers. Other voices, men’s voices. Shouting, then sneering.

  “Where the fuck is he?” That was the first
sentence Jack could make out. Liverpool accent. Jack grabbed Grace’s shoulder.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “I know that voice, he’s from the camp.”

  “The holiday camp?”

  “Yeah, Chris. Some scally, one of Dalby’s private army. He’s dangerous.”

  “What do you want to do? Shall we forget about it?”

  Jack looked behind him. The thick green of the trees would envelop them in seconds, they would be gone, like little animals, scurrying invisible between the scaffolding of the forest. He looked at his daughter. Her wide eyes fixed on her Dad, again, trusting.

  For how long would they be safe?

  “Let’s go see,” he said.

  They crawled closer until the voices were loud and clear, and now, through the trees, through the patchwork gaps in between the green and brown of the foliage, there was movement. The three of them couched and peered into a clearing.

  A man was tied to a tree, his top torn off and his brown skin covered in bruises and what looked like whip-lash marks.

  Three men in dirty army fatigues stood around the man tied to the tree. One of them - Chris - stepped forward. He had a thin birch branch in his hand. He stood by the man, braced himself and with the quick ferocity of a cat, raised the birch and whipped the tied man’s torso multiple times. The man cried in agony.

  “So, listen nobhead,” said Chris. “You either tell us where Allen is, or you keep getting this shit until you bleed out. You get me?”

  The man whimpered in reply, his head lolling hopelessly down. Blood running in thick rivulets from the many torn valleys of flesh.

  “Shit,” said Grace. “What do we do? They’re going to kill him.”

  “You have the gun?” said Chris.

  Grace stared at him.

  “You have the gun you took from the lab?” he said, grabbing her shoulder.

  “I’ve only fired it once, I don’t know if it works still, it was a year ago and…”

  “Give it to me,” said Jack.

  Grace reached around for her backpack. She placed it on the ground, and slowly, to keep quiet, searched through it. A new volley of whiplashes and screams punctured the air.

  “Daddy, I’m scared,” said Annie. She was clinging to Jack’s leg.

  Grace passed the gun to Jack.

  He took it from her quickly. “Now go back to the hut. Take Annie.”

  Grace shook her head, “No way, we need to-”

  “No,” said Jack. “You need to get Annie out of here. She doesn’t need to see this.”

  “But there’s three of them, you don’t even know how to fire that.”

  “Grace, please, take Annie back.”

  There was no question that he was going to leave, and there was no question that he was going to let Annie stay. Maybe Grace saw this, or felt it, because without saying anything else, she picked up her backpack, and took Annie’s hand.

  “Come on,” she said.

  “Daddy!” said Annie, a little too loud. Jack pulled her close to him and stared through the trees. The men had stopped. Chris and his soldiers were looking around the clearing and into the trees.

  For a terrible second, one of them started straight at Jack. He felt he was looking into the eyes of the old soldier. Tired and angry with life, nothing left to do but destroy. Jack put his finger on the trigger and raised the gun.

  The man looked away, still searching, but seeing nothing.

  “Annie, sweetheart,” whispered Jack carefully into his daughter’s ear. “You have to go with Grace. Daddy has to save the man.” He pulled away so he could look into her eyes. “I love you, ok? Trust me, I’m going to come back to you.”

  “Mummy didn’t.”

  Jack’s heart missed a beat. “I know. But I will, I promise.”

  Annie started to cry again, but she looked up at Grace.

  “You’d better keep that promise,” said Grace, before leading Annie away, back into the woods. A few steps and the two of them become nothing; lost forest sprites.

  Another volley of whipping.

  “Fucking useless this, Lieutenant. Let’s just do him,” said the younger soldier.

  Jack stared at the trees behind him, where his daughter had just disappeared into. He could follow, as easy as that. Forget about this man.

  Jack felt the weight of the gun in his hand. He hadn’t even asked Grace if it was loaded. Did he need to take the safety off? He examined the gun for anything to give him clues. Instructions maybe; he managed a smile at that one. His hands shook gently. His breathing was fast, it sounded terribly loud. He glanced into the clearing; no one was looking his way. Their attention was back on the man.

  Three soldiers. Chris, the gangly one, the one he knew and had dealt with before. Young, stupid, vicious. The other two he didn’t recognize. An older guy and a younger guy. The old man had a bitter look in his eyes; angry eyes, a barely continued fury with the world. It looked he was almost salivating, watching the whipped man and his agony. Like a vampire unable to hold back from the free-flowing blood on the tied man’s torso.

  The younger man, just a victim of circumstance, maybe. There was no anger in his eyes, just dumb animal obedience. In the past life, he had probably worked minimum wage, happy to do his dues, get his cash and get hammered of a Friday night. Now he was part of a torture team; Jack doubted he even realized.

  What the hell could Jack do? Three men, each with their own guns, although Chris’ was on the ground.

  One shot would be all Jack had before the guns would be trained on him, before he was the target of the machine guns spitting bullets.

  Jack, who had never fired a gun in his life.

  He looked around for inspiration. For help from the heavens, maybe, but none came. If he wanted to save this man, he would have to do it himself. And he did want to save him.

  Shoot the head of the snake.

  Jack raised the gun, a silver revolver, and pointed it at Chris. He held the gun at arm’s length and squinted with one eye down the sight like he had seen police do in a thousand films.

  He aimed at Chris, who was in the middle of another whipping spree.

  Jack fired.

  Grace stopped dead, Annie bumped into her from behind. Grace crouched, pulling the young girl down too.

  It was too late. The small group of undead had seen Grace, or heard her, it didn’t matter, they were on their way. Moaning and clicking, their laborious steps rustling in the vegetation. Arms clawing towards their prey.

  Annie let out a small whimper.

  Think quickly, thought Grace. There were about ten of them, spread through the trees. No, more than that. Maybe fifteen. Shit. More. Like woodlice crawling from a disturbed and rotten floorboard, the infected emerged with dull relentlessness into Grace’s view.

  She couldn’t go forward.

  “Ok Annie, let’s go.”

  Grace picked up Annie, and they turned back the way they had come.

  Who knows where the bullet went, but it didn’t go in Chris. Thankfully it didn’t go in the tied up man either.

  The three men dropped to the ground. Within seconds, gunfire opened. Jack flung himself to the ground and covered his head. Bullets whizzed around him like midges. Branches and leaves fell on top of him as the trees and bushes around him were decimated by the non-stop flurry of machine gun fire. His skin stung as chunks of bark or whatever hit him.

  The gunfire stopped, the shouting of Chris emerging from the new silence. “Stop shooting you fuckin idiots!”

  Silence. Not just no gunfire, but no nothing. No insects, no birds, no scurrying of animals. Dead silence. Jack’s heartbeat above it all, sure it was about to give him away.

  “Ok,” said Chris, “spread out around the clearing, careful.” He was whispering, but he might as well have been shouting in the quiet.

  Jack raised his head and peered through the leaves. About a foot from the ground, the bushes turned to bare twigs and branches, their heavy green deci
mated by the gunfire.

  Chris crouched by the man on the tree, his gun held to his face, moving it to the left and right, his eyes wide open and focused, his finger resting on the trigger of his weapon. His two soldiers were crouched, moving slowly to the edge of the clearing. The older man was heading straight for Jack. It wouldn’t be long before he was spotted.

  Jack took the gun in his hands and moved slowly, ever so slowly, getting ready to fire as soon as the man looked over the bush. The old man would see Jack's legs first, take him maybe a second to work out what he was looking at. By then, Chris would have fired, straight into the man’s torso, or head. It didn’t matter, just as long as he hit him. Then he would run.

  The old soldier got closer. His hair grey, his face tanned and furrowed in deep wrinkles like the surface of an alien planet. His mouth was poised in a snarl, yellow teeth. His breath fast and wheezy, no doubt his lungs ravaged by years of tobacco abuse. His dark brown eyes dashed from left to right.

  He reached the edge of the clearing, his legs only a foot or so away from Jack.

  Jack pointed the gun up.

  “What the…” said the man.

  Jack pulled the trigger. The bang echoed in his head and caused his eyes to close. He missed the sight, but heard the sound, like hitting a steak with a hammer. Warm liquid and bits of flesh dashed his face.

  A cry.

  Jack rolled, jumped up, and ran away from the clearing.

  A few seconds later, the shots started. Jack had meant to keep running, but before he knew what he was doing, he had thrown himself to the ground. He cursed. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Ahead of him was a gentle drop in the undulating forest ground, covered in dry brown pine needles. Jack rolled fast down the descent, bullets whizzing over his head.

  They would be on him in seconds. He lay on his back. Pointed his gun to the rise, waiting for them to arrive. Two of them. He could do it. He could get them. He had to fire true. Take your time, squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it. That was what they said in the films.