The One Percent
A Zombie Apocalypse
Fantasy Serial
By Erik P Heller © 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This work is a work of fiction and all characters are entirely fictional. Any similarity to people, alive or dead is entirely coincidental.
Please be aware, this book and serial contain, some bad language (not lots), toilet humour, British English spellings, plenty of Zombie gore, mild sexual references, supernatural fantasy elements, Americans, and other stuff that might offend.
Actually, the American is OK so scrub that part.
If any of those things is likely to offend you then my apologies in advance.
Contents
Episode One
Episode One
“I shit you not, Frankie, that is one bigass crowd of undead suckers down there.”
I blinked a couple of times at the appallingly bad taste in language my brother had displayed. “You can stop with all that American street talk, Gerald. You went to the same boarding school as me. Just because you work with all those dreadful oiks in the city doesn’t mean you have to speak like them doing an impression of a rap artist. And please don’t call me Frankie, you know how much I hate it.”
Gerald kindly flipped me a middle finger. And a broad grin. I repeated the gesture back to him. No malice, just brothers, playing out our allotted roles in life.
I took a couple of steps over to join him at the large, mullioned window that overlooked the once beautifully manicured lawns of Lanchcombe House.
Our family motto: ‘Never knowingly open to the public.’
I mean come on. Would you like some ice-cream- and burger-munching hoi polloi scuffing their muddy knock-off trainers across your ancient Axminster carpet while you’re trying to work?
No? Well, me neither, thank you very much.
Really? Not at all.
All in all, I’m a very welcoming sort of chap I think.
My one overriding ambition had always been that the day my father died, I would throw open Lanchcombe House to the public and let the people of Britain and the world see exactly what sort of tumbledown shitholes most of the nobility actually lived in.
It seemed, at least as things stood, that my ambition may never be realised in the way I had hoped, but right now at least, some of the public, undead though they were, did have access to the gardens at least and if I had anything to do with it, that’s as far as they would get.
In Gerald’s vernacular, he certainly was shitting me not.
The upper lawn was a seething mass of ex-humanity. I could tell by the hideous, dark clouds of flies that were their constant companions, that they must have been raising a heck of a stink as they tottered about randomly on the grass.
The lower lawn wasn’t much better. Not quite so many undead, but enough to be causing the kind of damage to the rose borders that edged the grass that would have given Jenkins, the head gardener, a severe coronary event—if it wasn’t for the fact he was one of the undead wandering about down there. So was his wife I noticed. And his three children.
They were having quite the family picnic, feeding on the shredded body of Arthurs, the gamekeeper. He’d been stupid enough to think a couple of blasts from a twelve bore would scare the undead away.
When the only reaction from them was to head straight in his direction from every other direction imaginable, he tried to run away, but fell over one of his dogs in the rush. The dog got away to live another day, but Arthurs had no such luck, poor chap.
What it did mean was that in the five days since the first reported outbreaks, several members of our staff here at Lanchcombe were now either missing, undead, or providing canapes for the undead masses.
Cook had never reappeared after she drove off, following a panicked phone call from her daughter. That had been three days ago, since when the standard of cuisine at mealtimes had, thankfully, improved even if the quantities left a lot to be desired. I could never understand why my father hadn’t dispensed with the old biddy’s services when she hit eighty but then, he always was a bit of a soft touch when it came to those who worked for the family.
Brimmers, our driver cum handyman, had handily driven off in one of the Daimlers two days ago, never to be seen again.
We had another two. Daimlers I mean, not drivers … or handymen for that matter. Problem was, neither worked and they hadn’t seen the inside of a garage workshop for twenty years, although Father insisted they were polished to a shine every day. The way things seemed to be progressing, I got the feeling that a handyman would have been, well … handy, I suppose.
The only staff we had left now were our butler, Jacobs and Mrs Banton, our hideous housekeeper. I’d kept suggesting she might want to leave but she never took me up on the offer. I bet she wished she had now.
Jacobs was sound. He’d been in the forces at some stage. Fought … somewhere hot abroad. He’d only worked for us for a couple of years so was a relative newcomer to the family but had proven to be a loyal and trustworthy fellow. His official title was butler but in reality, he was more like my personal assistant, with a natty line in clothes and I’d come to rely on him greatly.
My mother and father, the Duke and Duchess of Lanchcombe had been down in town, London of course, when … what’s the saying? The shit hit the fan, I believe it to be. From the news reports, before they stopped, I firmly believed they had now joined the masses of the undead, and I was now Francis, Duke of Lanchcombe.
I’m not convinced it will count for much out in what’s left of the real world, so when we all leave Lanchcombe, as we most certainly will have to do, I’d decided to be known as Frank.
If I survive.
Gerald, my somewhat idiotic younger brother wished to be known by some ghastly moniker. Jezza, I believe he said.
He said it would give him additional credibility among the other survivors if we should happen across any. It gave me indigestion just listening to him spouting off.
We’d never really seen eye to eye since he was old enough to realise that, as second born, he wouldn’t inherit the title, or the estate and would, horror of horrors, have to earn a living through honest toil.
I, on the other hand, would inherit both title and estate and according to him, and it seems most other people out in the wide world, live a life of unbridled luxury with nothing more to do than marry some thoroughly wholesome woman to produce an heir and a spare while at the same time spend hours a day chasing around every bit of local skirt trying to … errm, I think the saying is, get my end away.
Wrong on all counts. Lanchcombe House hadn’t been upgraded since the middle of the last century. We only got broadband a year ago. There was no heating other than coal fires in most rooms. The last time we plugged in a fan heater it cost fifteen grand to fix the wiring, and the fire engines needed to put out the blaze in the east wing did so much damage to the grounds it was all too much for Jenkins, who I found sitting, leaning back against one of the walls of the walled garden, crying into a cup of Earl Grey with four sugars that cook had provided for him.
I glanced back outside.
He wasn’t crying now.
Our bank account was overdrawn. Very. My father had started to flog off the family silver, literally and metaphorically, to fund his rather extravagant lifestyle as
a self-styled professional gambler. He lost … continuously … he was very professional at being a bad gambler.
I had never had a girlfriend worthy of the name, not because of them, but because of the sheer exhaustion and stress of not only running the estate but also trying to ensure we had enough cash on hand to pay the bills and the staff’s wages.
All in all, we were skint, living in four rooms of a huge, half burned-down house with no heating, and now no food, and to top it all off, our lawn was being trampled by Zombies.
Until then I’d have given almost anything to swap places with Gerald.
Now, we were firmly in the same boat.
It hadn’t been a good week but chin up I’d said, we shall prevail.
Jezza scoffed and laughed aloud.
IX0X0X0X0X0X0XI
“So,” I said, “the situation as I see it is this. We’re buggered.” Mrs Banton tutted but I kept going anyway. “We’ve run out of food. The power went two days ago. There’s water in the pipes which might last us a while but will run out eventually. The time has come for us to abandon ship, say goodbye to Lanchcombe, and slip out to somewhere …” I wandered over to the window and peeked out at the seething mass, “… less infested.”
The garden had at least as many Zombies in it as earlier and in the distance, I could see more of them, meandering along the gravel track that led from the front gate to the parking area near the east wing, from where they fanned out to surround the house.
Why they felt the need to do that, I have no idea.
Maybe they could smell us or hear the movements inside the house. So far, the stout, oak front door and the solid steel metal bar behind it had repulsed all-comers, but my bet was, eventually, they would find a way in.
They were like water. That always found a way in too, especially when the house hadn’t been re-roofed in the best part of a century.
In the distance, I could see several of the things going in and out of the door to the gatehouse which was where Mrs Banton had lived. Somehow, she seemed disinclined to move back in. I really couldn’t blame her.
“Your Grace? Might I ask where you intend to go?” I looked at Jacobs, still keeping up standards in his morning coat and waistcoat, a bright white shirt with a starched collar unless I was much mistaken, and a silver-grey tie that matched the first streaks of grey that were appearing on his temples.
“Good question, Jacobs. Firstly, all this ‘Your Grace’ malarkey has to stop. From now on I would prefer it if you would just call me Frank—”
“You can call me Jezza.” Gerald said.
“Please don’t interrupt, Gerald,” I said. “It really is frightfully rude.”
He gave me a look like he wanted to unhook one of the ceremonial swords from above the fire and run me through with it. It’s how he always looked at me. I was used to it.
“Where was I,” I said. “Ah, yes. So far, the plan of action I have in my head is this. We take the old tunnel from the basement to the church. Come, look.” I waved them all over and pointed to the church which sat a mile away.
“The vicar’s car is parked at the church, so that means he’s either there, or he’s been caught up in all this mess. Either way, we have a vehicle we can use if we can get to it and find the keys. The road from the church to the front gates looks fairly clear right now so with any luck we can get out through the gates and shut them behind us to keep all of those things,” I looked down at the lawns. “away from anyone else who might be around.”
“And after that?” Mrs Banton asked, her hands firmly shoved in the pocket of the striped apron she habitually wore. I looked her over. Late forties, grey hair in a bun and a face that looked like she’d sucked on a lemon, and that was when she was smiling.
“After that we get away from here and head north. We still have Charlecomb House in Northumberland, and Landor Hall up in Scotland. Both are in the middle of nowhere.”
“Excuse me Your Grace—” I raised an eyebrow at Jacobs. “Sorry, excuse me … Frank. According to the reports I heard, this business all started in Manchester and spread north first. Would we not be wiser moving south?”
“The problem is—it’s Brian isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it is.” Jacobs was looking calm. Calmer than I felt and certainly calmer than Mrs Banton who was now fluttering her hands from cheek to lip to jowl as she watched the Zombies’ slow, mindless rotation on the lawns below.
“The problem is, Brian, if it is still spreading, then the south is the most populous part of the country. Looking outside, I can’t imagine it will get much better the further south we go. Worse most likely. Mrs Banton? Any thoughts?”
“I don’t want to go out there.”
I moved toward the woman who had worked here with the family for as long as I could remember and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Now come on, Jean. Do you really want to stay here and face those things when they get in. And they will get in. Mark my words. Already they’re gathering in front of the windows as well as the doors. One day soon, that old glass is going to give way and that will be that.” I offered her what I hoped was a comforting smile.
She burst into raging rivers of tears. Funny how that always seems to happen when I smile at a woman. It might explain me being thirty-eight and single.
I never realised she wore mascara, but it was smudging all around her eyes into a gross, grey-black, gloopy mess. I handed her my handkerchief to help clean herself up.
After she wiped herself down, she tried to hand it back, but I held up a hand to tell her to keep it. It was covered in gloop. Why would I want it back?
“I’m frightened Your—Frank. I hear them at night, groaning, and shuffling around. I saw what happened to Arthurs. That poor, poor man, they tore him apart.”
“I know, Jean, but that’s all the more reason to get out of here don’t you think? At least you will have somebody to help you. Protect you.”
She stopped crying abruptly. I’d stopped smiling so I assumed that was why. “I need no man to protect me, Frank.” Her Scottish accent was suddenly heightened, and I took a step back at her outburst. “Sorry, Your … sorry.”
“Don’t be, Jean. I probably deserved it. Women’s lib and all that. You’ll probably end up protecting me.” I tried to laugh but it came out all wrong, strangled.
Jezza sniggered.
“What about you … Jezza,” I said, having to steel myself to even utter the word through gritted teeth.
Jezza walked around Mrs Banton, then stepped up to me so we were, as near as dammit, eye to eye. He was an inch or so taller than me, a fact that seemed to pour fuel on the fire of inadequacy that stemmed from him being younger than me by a couple of years.
I fixed my eyes on his, knowing this was just another one of his little ploys to try to annoy me. Even with a massed, undead horde rumbling around outside, he still found time to play his little mind games. Whatever happened, I knew he would back down. He always did. I fought hard to keep a sneer off my face. The sooner he made his little point, the quicker it would be all over.
“You want my opinion, Francis?” he imbued my name with a spitting invective.
“I would value your opinion, yes.” I kept my gaze fixed on his dark brown eyes. He spoke again, his wedge of brown hair flopping forward with every movement of his head. He swiped it back with his long, delicate fingers.
“We’re all dead. That’s my opinion. We might as well walk out of the front door shouting for Mummy for all the good it will do us in getting away from here.”
“I disagree. We have the chance to escape and find somewhere we can hole up in until this whole … affair gets sorted out properly.”
“We will die if we leave here, and it’s not going to get sorted out, did you not watch the news stories, man, it’s everywhere,” Jezza insisted.
“We will die if we stay.”
“You don’t understand. You have no real experience of the outside world. Everybody out there hates us. The one p
ercent. The upper classes. The nobility. They think we’re a bunch of elitist, entitled, stuck-up snobs who wouldn’t piss on an ordinary person if they were on fire.”
Mrs Banton tutted again, but I ignored her expression of distaste. “Is that what you think of me?”
Jezza laughed and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “No, you idiot. You’re my brother. I love you and I know, despite my behaviour, you love me too and that you are a good person. Trouble is the first time we meet any survivors, they are going to hear the way you speak, and, probably blame people like us for it all starting.”
“Then we need to avoid that happening.”
“How?”
“By showing people that just because we are nobility, we are far from useless and certainly not to blame.”
“My gut feeling, brother dear, is that we should keep our noble birth a well-kept and long-running secret if we don’t want the first bunch of survivors we come across to leave us lying around with a claw-hammer in our heads.”
I kept up the eyeball to eyeball stare going on between me and my brother, even though I knew he was probably right, or at least had a valid point … to a degree. I mean I’m not that erudite that I haven’t watched Zombie shows on TV. I knew all the talk about how the people, the living, were the real danger once civilisation crashed around our ears, and it certainly seemed to have done so in the most spectacular fashion.
Eventually, as I knew he would, he broke the stare first.
Once he had, I said, “You might have a point, Gerald, but I see what’s going on outside, and I would personally rather take a risk on the uncertainty of what might happen out there,” I waved my hand vaguely at the window, “than the certainty that we will die if we hang around here. So, we go. We go north. We try to survive until we reach Charlecomb or Landor, then we try to rebuild something from there. Everybody agreed?”
It took a while, but eventually, Brian, Jezza, and Jean as they were all to be known, nodded with varying degrees of confidence.
The One Percent (Episode 1): The One Percent Page 1