All the Dead Are Here

by Pete Bevan

  Most UK cities were still ‘out of play’ to use the military term. Only really London, due to its cultural and historic significance, and Edinburgh because of the easily defendable castle, had significant populations. Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, all these and many, many more were out of bounds to humans and still roamed day and night by their former inhabitants.

  Paul had been summoned by the Minister of Special Circumstances and had arrived through the ruined London streets by rickshaw cabbie. Civilian petrol shortages meant cabbies had cut the rear end off their taxis and attached bikes to the front; most of them were happier that way as it kept them fit into the bargain and now that there was virtually no traffic in the deserted streets there was nothing to get frustrated about. He had been cleared by the dogs at the entrance to Westminster and entered the Minister of Special Circumstances’ private office. He stood in front of the desk and, although still wearing civilian gear, saluted stiffly.

  Jim Bramer, Minister of Special Circumstances, had been an Operations Manager and engineer in a factory prior to the Fall; this training had given him a unique perspective on rebuilding the capital. He commissioned wind farms and solar panelling to provide some electricity. He had set up apprenticeship training programs for blacksmiths, motor mechanics, builders, pilots and farmers. Virtually everyone in the London safe zone had two or three different trades and his idea to resurrect the wartime spirit of the British had given hope where previously there had only been despair. Posters and adverts on the BBC were everywhere urging citizens to recycle, be vigilant, build not destroy, farm not consume, help not hinder. Crime was virtually non-existent.

  However, Jim was most proud of his military achievements, the new Special Forces were seen as Knights of the New Monarchy, something for young minds to aspire to, and something to be feared in their black armour, reminiscent of the medieval warriors on which Britain had been founded. To the outside, the UK looked like a mix between medieval England and George Orwell’s 1984, with all the positives of stern governance, a strong King in William and a job for everyone to rebuild the shattered Kingdom. Yes, Jim’s job was much better than being a faceless drone in a factory. He was over sixty now, with short grey hair and a lined face that showed a history of starvation and struggle under its stern features.

  “At ease, Paul,” said Bramer.

  “Sir,” said Paul, relaxing.

  Bramer motioned towards a chair. “Whiskey?”

  “No thank you, sir,” said Paul taking a seat in the red leather high-back in front of the old mahogany desk.

  “The reason I have called you here is, unfortunately, not a social one,” said Bramer.

  “It never is sir,” said Paul, smiling.

  “No… no,” chuckled Bramer.

  “I want you to listen to this recording and tell me what you think.” Bramer clicked play on the battered old Sony Vaio and the office filled with the sound of a recording of a man’s voice. Paul listened intensely to the file and both men baulked at the end of the recording.

  “But I thought the Minister was just a legend, a fairy tale to scare your kids,” said Paul, visibly shaken.

  “Apparently not… Paul, we have lost contact with several of the smaller Scottish communities north of Edinburgh and now we have lost contact with Edinburgh itself.” Paul looked surprised. “I want you to investigate and report back. This is a 24-hour recon and destroy mission. If you find The Minister your orders are to capture or kill him. If he is resistant to the disease then he can infiltrate communities, destroy them and escape with impunity. We cannot allow that to continue,” said Bramer gravely.

  “Of course not sir,” said Paul.

  “This enemy is human Paul, capable of all the dirty tricks, lies and betrayals specific to humankind. You need to forget everything you know about fighting the Z and recalibrate to fighting someone who is immune to the Z. Someone who has survived the Fall and believes himself to be some sort of Priest doing God’s work. That is all we know but even that is enough to make him a danger to the State. We are rebuilding something wonderful here Paul and I won’t let this son of a bitch ruin it. I want him found and dealt with, nipped in the bud before the populace realise he is more than a legend. Panic is our biggest enemy in this city Paul, did you know that?” Bramer was red faced now.

  “Panic breeds death, sir,” said Paul, quoting one of Bramer’s favourite propaganda posters.

  “Yes, Paul. Exactly.”

  “One final thing,” continued Bramer. “A question, actually... Why now? Why has it taken him all this time to start this crusade? Why not in the first few years after the Fall when we were weakest? You need to consider this, Paul, considerate it carefully before you go up against him, not because I don’t think you are capable, but because he is a different enemy to the one you are used to.” Bramer took a sip of whiskey. Paul merely nodded in thought. “I’m in the process of arranging a chopper to take you north, other than that, it’s your mission.”

  “As always sir,” said Paul, darkly.

  Bramer slid the thick file across the table to face Paul. On its cover it read:

  ‘The Minister: Top-level clearance only’.

  The helicopter pilot turned and looked at Paul. “Five minutes, sir.”

  Paul retrieved the kit bag from underneath his bench on the Huey and opened it. He grabbed his black armour and pulled it over his head, tightening the clips, and securing it firmly. He grabbed the greaves and pulled them on each leg, securing them as he went. He pulled the skull mask with black tinted goggles over his head and finally secured the black, plastic ribbed gloves over his hands. The small pack he shouldered had water and food, a couple of flash bangs, ammo, a maglite, some rolling tobacco (his only vice) and his radio. He took out his automatic pistol and tucked it in the back of his armoured suit. He removed the AS50 sniper rifle with telescopic sight, checked and loaded it before holstering it on his back. The P90 sub machine was also loaded and checked before being slotted into the thigh holster. Finally, reverently, he removed the Union Jack sword and scabbard and strapped it to his back, crossed against the sniper rifle.

  Paul opened the door of the Huey and noise exploded around him, the cold Scots air rushing through the ancient chopper, chilling him through his armour. He held onto the rail above and gazed down at the green countryside rushing below him. They passed a small group of Z’s walking north; they looked up, acknowledging the passing chopper. They were obviously ‘originals’, Z’s from the Fall, now naked, clothes fallen off after years of wandering and shrivelled, like grey tree bark moistened by the misty dew of the morning. In a way they were easier to deal with as they looked about as far away from human as you could get and moved more slowly than the freshly turned. The only thing less human were the bloaters, those that had rotted under water for a long time and had swelled as the gases in their bodies expanded and the water separated their cell membranes. You could usually smell bloaters a long, long time before you saw them.

  They passed several burnt out farmhouses and overgrown car parks littered with rusted cars, whitening skeletons, and dominating weeds. Nature itself was taking over; most roads, except for the motorways, were impassable due to wreckage and the encroaching hedgerows and flora were slowly breaking up the concrete road surfaces.

  Ahead, Paul could see the twin hills of Holyrood Park. It was a perfect drop zone away from the urban area of Edinburgh itself. The Huey dropped between the two hills, the sound of the chopper muffled from the surrounding area by the imposing cliffs on either side. The pilot dropped to about fifty feet, scanning for movement below. There was none, and no cover so when Paul indicated he would use the rope to rappel down, the pilot shook his head and dropped the chopper to the ground. Fuel constraints meant the pilot couldn’t afford the flyby of Edinburgh he requested but this didn’t matter.

  “See you in 24 hours, boss,” said the pilot, cheerily.

  “You will,” replied Paul.

  Paul crouched and trotted away fr
om the Huey as it rose with a rumble into the cold morning sky. The buffeting of the downdraft subsided and Paul jogged northwest towards the crest of the hill. He wanted to get a vantage point to view the Edinburgh community from afar. He also knew that even with the secluded drop point it would attract some unwanted attention. He stopped just shy of the crest, maybe thirty feet higher, and unslung the AS50. He would give it ten minutes in this safe spot and despatch the few inquisitive Z’s that would inevitably arrive. He rolled a cigarette and smoked it, savouring the flavour of the imported tobacco after the long flight while scanning the area. “Dead quiet,” he wryly thought to himself.

  Paul crested the hill and shouldered the sniper rifle, looking through the powerful scope. Edinburgh stood like a series of grey monoliths against the skyline. It was still too early in the day for the mist to clear and although he scanned the area of Edinburgh castle rising in the distance he couldn’t pick out any detail. No lights were visible.

  He studied his route north towards Dukes Walk and the A1, again nothing except derelict cars and rubble; all colours washed away by time and the grey morning. He looked along Dukes Walk to Holyrood Road. He had memorised the route last night. No movement. By his reckoning, he was a click away from the wall that ran along the A7, signifying the east side of the Edinburgh community boundary, with 500m of that across urban ground. Ideally he would need to find a route up to the rooftops, standard procedure for traversing a city due to the Z’s inability to climb. But it didn’t look good, he wasn’t into the city proper and the building density wasn’t great enough to allow rooftop travel. He shouldered the sniper rifle and checked the P90. Quietly, he moved back into the valley.

  The road had been cleared and broken rusting cars littered the verges, mostly empty, but he saw a people carrier with a family of rotting skeletons inside, including a tiny skeleton in the child seat. The driver’s door was open but the driver had a large hole though his skull. Paul didn’t want to think about what had happened in that car and moved cautiously onwards. He cut north past a white permanent tent with glass sides, signposted ‘Dynamic Earth’; obviously an eco museum of some type. “Doesn’t feel too dynamic at the moment,” he thought, as he padded silently through the windless grey, like a stalking black cat. He passed Holyrood Palace and stopped for a second to look at its striking architecture of sweeping curves and glass frames; windows that were now smashed, rotting barricades that showed the battle that had been fought here to save Scotland’s fledgling democracy. Evidently it had failed.

  Given that roof travel was impossible he decided to head north to Canongate and down the wide street to avoid side alleys and points where he could be ambushed from dark corners and Edinburgh myriad closes and alleys. Tall 18th century granite buildings rose on his left, now vine covered, with a small tree was growing out of an upper storey window. Ahead he could see the Barrier that used to be the A7 and across it there was a thirty-foot high wall of rubble with what appeared to be an aluminium gate at the end of Canongate, with a guard tower either side atop the wall. The row of buildings had been demolished to make the wall, which left a no-man’s land about 100m wide all the way along the wall, north and south. Paul cut left and crouched behind a car.

  Now there were two real dangers.

  The first were unseen snipers in the guard tower, bored, stoned, or drunk, they were known to take pot shots at any Z’s entering the no man’s land area. This was generally tolerated because after a few months the Z’s would learn not to go into that zone. Unfortunately for the Special Forces, these guards didn’t think that a lone human would stay in that area so they would usually take a pot shot at them too. Paul nearly lost an eye because of this a few years ago.

  The second danger was crossing no man’s land itself, normally there would be a lot of Z activity just out of range of weaponry on the towers. Paul knew he was in that area now, but there was nothing: no movement, no moans, nothing. This in itself unsettled Paul. In fact, he hadn’t seen a single Z on the way in. That was unheard of in a major population centre: where there were humans there were Z’s, simple as that.

  Paul took the Maglite out of his pack and flashed it at the guard towers, using the series of signals agreed to show he was military and would be approaching the gate. He waited for a reply, after several minutes he tried again. No response. Maybe that’s why there were no Z’s: There were no humans. But it would still be dangerous to cross to the gate if there was no-one there to let him in, it would leave him too exposed. He repacked the Maglite and looked at the wall again. To the right from the gate he saw a route where he could climb up some exposed concrete columns and granite blocks where they were poorly stacked and the steel reinforcement bars stuck out from the wall at a variety of angles. At about ten feet there was a small ledge he could use to stay out of reach if Z’s came. Hopefully, that would attract the attention of anyone inside to open the gate. He shouldered the P90 and got ready to move. Swiftly he left his cover and crossed the open ground towards the wall. Nimbly, he scaled the wall up to the ledge and only then turned round. Nothing followed him. He scanned the buildings and dark corners where he came from. No movement, only silence and his own steady breathing.

  He listened intently to see if he could hear anything from the guard towers above or the enclave beyond. He considered calling up there, but decided against it, for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention to his exposed position. He spotted a route to climb up, so he took it and as he scrambled to the top of the wall he was in line with the crudely built guard towers. There was no-one in them. He looked down at the rest of Canongate, stretching out away from the gate. There were certainly signs of life and below him was a series of ramshackle tents and crude buildings, rusting caravans and MPV’s. Washing lines with drying clothes stretched across the road, as well as jerry-rigged electrical cables and chained extension leads. The population density was huge in Edinburgh; normally this would bustle with fifty thousand people crammed into a small walled city. There was only silence, complete and enveloping silence, the kind where your own breathing was all-encompassing. He looked at the building on either side of the street, boarded up windows to protect from the cold; some windows were still intact but there were no lights anywhere. He removed the sniper rifle and peered into its scope. He was close enough now to look along the Royal Mile, up towards the castle itself. It was like looking at an oil painting; nothing moved in the still air. Brightly coloured banners and tent covers lay static in the morning stillness in a long line right up to the castle, their colours washed out by the dull morning sun. Nothing moved. There was not even the sound of a bird or sight of an insect in the cold, damp vista.

  Paul shouldered the P90 and moved across to the guard tower ladder. He scrabbled quickly down it and onto street level, gun aimed along eye line constantly as he jogged. Checking corners and side streets as he moved up the middle of the road, he slid along the Royal Mile through the granite canyon of the tall Victorian buildings. Paul’s footsteps, light as they were, echoed gently from the old stone walls.

  “I love you, I love you,” said a cutesy voice echoing in the silent street. Startled, Paul jumped, aiming his gun as he left the ground. As he landed he saw he had kicked a child’s doll. Off key, it repeated its mantra.

  “I love you, I love you.”

  “Jesus Christ,” whispered Paul, bringing his boot heel down on the chest of the doll, silencing it forever. Quickly he swept a 360°, checking to see if anything had heard. Again there was nothing. His heart thundered in his chest.

  “Jesus,” he repeated, relaxing his aim a second. He kicked the doll and it skidded loudly across the road. He pursed his lips and exhaled, breathing heavily, assuming his stance with the stubby gun at his shoulder he moved off again toward Edinburgh Castle. Silence enveloped him once more.

  Quickly and quietly, he moved up Castlehill and through the inner blockade. It was as if the entire population had vanished. He entered the main castle itself past a building with a faded
gift shop sign, his black figure outlined in the glass reflection of the door. A wide concrete area inside was well tended and neat, no signs of struggle. This was the highest point in the safe zone so he moved up to the north battlement, shouldered the sniper rifle, and looked north across the safe zone to the outer wall beyond. There was no movement; the vista was the same one he had moved through to get to this point, grey buildings, temporary structures, static mist but no life, or death, for that matter. Nothing. Through the gloom, the distant sun struggled to light the city around him, even though it was now mid morning. Paul leant the rifle against the battlement, removed his mask and took out his bottle of water. Drinking deeply, he considered what he had seen so far.