All the Dead Are Here

by Pete Bevan

  She stumbled back with the spike, brandishing it like a club. She spoke with a tremulous voice.

  “You are one of the Dead. One of the old horrors!” she exclaimed. The Teller sat up, holding his gloved hand to his neck.

  “I am,” he said flatly. Then she looked again, seeing the sword that stuck from the eye of the attacker. She saw the criss-crossed pattern, and the impossible thinness of the blade, and her eyes widened, for she had heard the tale only last night.

  “You are the Dead Soldier!”

  “I am.”

  The Teller watched her as she shook in terror. His next words would determine both their fates.

  “After I defeated the Min… The Dark Priest I was operated on. Surgeons repaired my throat using the vocal chords and ligaments of another Zombie. Then they embalmed me and coated me with chemicals to prevent putrefaction. I was given artificial lungs and metal joints. They did this so I could help them find the other Zombies. The ones I could see in the grey. I don’t think they expected me to last as long as I have.”

  “And that is how you know the truth?” she exclaimed, not knowing all the words he used.

  “I know the truth because I was there, although my memory isn’t as good as it was,” he said. She stood there shaking for a long time, coiled like a frightened beast.

  “Did you lie to my Father? Do you intend to make me like you or eat my bones?” she quivered.

  He wanted to laugh but gave her the respect of answering her straight.

  “No. I wouldn’t hurt you. I will die soon though, or not be able to move. When that happens I don’t want to go alone. I want someone to separate my head from my neck and burn the body, and I want someone to pass on the things I’ve seen so people don’t make the same mistakes again. That’s why I need an apprentice,” he said.

  Tears welled in her eyes and the spike dropped to the floor. She cried for a while, sobbing gently into her hands. The Teller took some strips of leather from his pack and repaired his neck covering. Then he retrieved his sword and separated their attackers’ heads from their necks. She stopped crying and wiped the tears away from her red eyes. The Teller looked up the path away from her, towards the setting sun and when he spoke it was with melancholy sadness.

  “If you want to go home, you can. I didn’t know how I was going to keep this from you anyway. It’s probably better that you find out here and not while we are on the continent. It’s your choice,” he said detachedly.

  She fiddled in her pack for her water bottle. She removed the top and drank deeply before speaking.

  “In the story last night you said the Dead Soldier always acted with honour. He always tried to do the right thing, but sometimes people still died. Is this true?”

  “It’s true. Sometimes I have done things I’ve regretted, and there have been sacrifices. You can’t live as long as I have without compromise, but the promise I made to your Father was a true one. I will protect you, and teach you so you can teach others. When it’s your time to take an apprentice, you can teach them,” he said.

  “Is that why you want an apprentice?”

  “Partly.”

  “In the story you went into the East?”

  “I went into the East a Soldier. The world didn’t need soldiers anymore. So I came back a Teller.”

  He turned and smiled at her. She looked away, sniffing.

  “Can I trust you?” she asked, and he felt the weight of the question.

  “Yes, you can trust me. As long as you learn to respect me and do as you are told,” he said. She stood and brushed the grass from her trousers.

  “Then I will come with you. Your words are the truth, and if you say you will not harm me, then I believe you, and I thank you for saving my life.”

  “You have nothing to prove to me, you know. I know you are full of fire. You will need that fire to walk with me.”

  “I know,” she said quietly.

  They collected sticks and dry moss in silence and burnt the bodies in a clearing. The Teller said a few words asking that the maker did not judge them too harshly.

  He gave her the rapier, for it was good quality with a fine hilt. Then he said he would teach her to use it. They walked for a long time in silence until the path rejoined the river and a flight of bats overhead indicated the coming of the night. The Teller made a torch with some foul smelling oil from his pack, and they walked into the darkness.

  After a time, she spoke. “I suppose now we have a bond, for you saved my life and I know your secret.”

  The Teller stopped and looked at the flickering torchlight on her young skin. He had forgotten what youth looked like. He could almost feel the life from her. Her eyes shone and sparkled.

  “I suppose we do.”

  “Then I would ask two things of you.”

  “Go on.”

  “The first is I would like to know your given name. The second is I would hear your story. Not the story that you Tell, but your story from the Golden Age until now. I will tell no-one, this is just between us.”

  He considered her request, weighing it up. He turned to continue walking.

  “Will it stop you calling me ‘old man’?”

  “It will.” She smiled and followed him.

  “My given name is Paul,” he said after a while. She did not answer.

  They walked along the moonlit river and heard the calling of the night birds. In the distance they saw the beacon atop the ruined cathedral of Woocster. The torch flickered in the light breeze and in the end Paul spoke.

  “Do you remember me telling you of the great rivers of stone on which people used cars to travel at fantastic speeds? They were called motorways back then.”

  “I do,” she said.

  “I was about seven years… seven summers old when the apocalypse hit. My Mum and Dad and I were travelling to Cornwall, now called Kernow, to stay with my Auntie.”

  As they walked into the night they talked, and the Teller began to tell his story, but it was not finished by the time they reached Woocster. It was a very long story but they had many miles together in which he could tell it.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Ryan West who supported my first tentative shambles back into the world of writing. Without him and the contributors and readers at Tales of World War Z this book wouldn't have been written. I probably would have got bored and wandered off if it wasn't for them.

  I would also like to thank Craig Wood for his editing services, he has been the sole of patience during my email blitzkrieg entitled “Hows it coming along mate?”.

  I would like to thank the small army of proofreaders, including my beautiful wife, Jeff DeRego, Clay Dugger, Randy Brooks, and Ryan West amongst others for giving me their honest feedback, and grammar tips.

  I want to thank Daniel Clarke for the unbelievably accurate portrayal of 'The Minister' on the front cover. His image is exactly how I imagined him.

  I would also like to thank you for buying my book, and I hope you have enjoyed it.