Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2

by K. Bartholomew

  Jack, aye?

  Oh, I understood this little arrangement alright and I tried not to picture Clayton’s mother and my father tupping away whilst we were taking Latin. And more than anything else, I hoped it could be me who’d get to tell the double crosser all about it.

  It was a pity though. I’d always quite fancied the thought of having at Mrs Clayton myself and had on more than one occasion insinuated a pass, given that Mr Clayton was presently preoccupied cracking stones in one of Her Majesty’s debtors prisons. Oh the shame he brought on his family, and just like my father to take advantage. And doubtless Mrs Clayton was doing well out of it too. She looked young for a woman in her mid forties and way too good for my drunken father.

  For a brief moment, as I approached the study, I experienced a sense of relief that this may not actually go all that bad for me, given my father owed his present ability to indulge his lechery to my former friendship with the woman in question’s son.

  He lay back in his recliner, eyes shut, mouth open, yellow dribble dripping over his shirt, glass of Scotch on the desk.

  The problem was, you could never quite foretell his mood when he was in one of his drunken stupors.

  I tapped him on the knee and he shook before clearing his throat of its usual whisky induced catarrh.

  “What in the blazes?” He pushed himself up and squinted, almost unbelieving I stood before him. “What the bloody hell are you doing here? You’re not due back for two bloody months, what?”

  There was no way around it. The only option was to tell the truth and I decided he may at least respect me that little bit more if I just came out with it. “Dad, I got kicked out of Eton for bullying fags.”

  His hand instinctively moved for the birch but stopped halfway upon seeing he couldn’t reach it without leaning forward. “You got kicked out for bullying fags? What the bloody hell? That’s what they’re there for!” He grit his yellow teeth.

  “That’s what I told Old Tubs but I was damned if he’d listen.” My voice was high pitched, my hands held in some odd placatory gesture which I almost dared to hope might work.

  He attempted to push himself out from the chair but gave up on discovering the exertion was too much. “All that money…” his voice rose to a crescendo but I was happy to take it for the moment as he continued to lament the financial loss. The lecture continued to cover such topics as my clearly being more of my mother’s side, I was a disappointment and could I not have kept my head down for only another two months. “Well that’s Oxford shot to bits…damned if you’d have made it anyway.”

  I hesitated as I tried to sum up the moment and his mood. “Well, that’s just it. I was thinking…and I’m not sure I really need an Oxford education to join the family business.”

  He recruited Irish labourers by the hundred and contracted them out to factories, railways and agriculture, taking twenty percent of their pay - How hard could it be and why did I need Oxford for such an endeavour?

  Now he absolutely did push himself from the chair and I backed away toward the wall, registering the cricket bat that perched in the corner. “Do you think I’d risk the bloody business with you? We’re in deep enough with the bean counters as it is without risking the whole ship on the likes of you, my lad.”

  This wasn’t good, no, not at all, and I felt the emptiness rise in my stomach. The family business was my birthright. Stuff Eton and Oxford but the business was what belonged to me. “Dad, you promised!”

  He coughed and cleared his throat of yet more thick mucus. “And you promised to remain out of my sight until July.” I saw it then, the sudden realisation in his drunken face that I’d seen his mistress, but it didn’t change his tact. “Looks like Alfred’s my last hope, assuming your brother’s capable of not getting kicked out of school.”

  “Look, you need to think this through. You know Alfred doesn’t have my likability,” being more of my father’s side, “and you need me to secure new contracts, especially since, like you say, we’re in the dirt with the bean counters.”

  He shifted back toward the birch as I shuffled toward the bat. “How dare you! You get yourself expelled and then see fit to make demands on me?” His face turned a deeper shade of red than his already burst blood vessels usually showed.

  I trembled because the old man just wouldn’t see sense. Maybe I’d played the family business card too soon? “Then what the bloody hell will I do?” Now, there was my ace card, because I knew he wouldn’t want me loitering about the home all day and all summer, especially now considering he had Mrs Clayton to entertain. “You could send me to Eastbourne and I’ll run your office?”

  For a while he displayed no reaction - Then he started laughing and for a moment I thought he might even agree. That was, until he spoke. “No, my lad. What I suggest to you is that you join the army.”

  I wouldn’t push it any further just now but after this latest damned fool suggestion, I certainly wouldn’t let the matter end there either.

  Army indeed - It was an English tradition that the second or third sons would join the army while the first born, me, would take over the family business and enrich ourselves. I wouldn’t suffer the humiliation of Alfred taking my comfortable prospects away just because some fag named Davis ran crying to Old Tubs.

  I was in a rare rage when I stopped Mrs Clayton by the stairs. “Tell me, how much is he paying you?”

  She almost dropped the books she was carrying. “Such a foul mouth you have on you.” She took a swing with a Bible, missing.

  I grabbed her arms and moved closer. “Wouldn’t you rather have younger meat than the old man? I bet he must have paid off all the debts your husband ran up.”

  She struggled and kneed me in the crotch. “You wicked boy. I see you’ve inherited your father’s lechery.”

  I doubled over, struggling to breathe. “And I see where your son gets his treachery.” Unfortunately, the pain was too severe to appreciate my impromptu rhyme.

  She raised the Bible, poised for another strike at my head, which I’d take any day over a knee in the ghoulies, when there was a knock at the door.

  And it was the conversation resulting from this moment that was to forever change my life.

  An Uncle With Connections

  I’d only seen him once before my entire life, apparently as a baby, and naturally remembered nothing of him.

  Uncle Luther and I had taken a walk out to the stables where we now conversed as we leant against Bess, one of our English thoroughbreds.

  “You’re a stupid idiot, son.” He glared at me with judgemental eyes whilst jauntily holding onto the lapels of his weskit.

  “For getting kicked out of Eton?”

  “For trying to lift the skirt of your father’s wench.” He lit up a cigar and blew out a plume of smoke. “You never heard the saying, ‘don’t shit where you eat,’ son?”

  I hadn’t, but it made sense. Sure, I’d wanted her in the moment, but probably not enough to risk the consequences of her grassing to my old man. Already, I’d suffered one incident of my inferiors running to higher authority and I considered the likelihood of her blathering to him but reasoned that more likely she’d rather enjoy the thought of my lusting after her and as long as she kept my indiscretion to herself, well then, she could ensure my good behaviour, in the short term at the least. Or was I deluding myself?

  “What do you think will happen?”

  He almost choked on his smoke. “You’ve made the atmosphere toxic, is what will happen. I hope you enjoy being back here, around a drunk father on the warpath and his whore biding her time, maybe even blackmailing you as you go about fixing the shattered remnants of your life.”

  He’d take her word over mine, I was certain of that.

  But worse - I now had the prospect of having to share an abode with the pair of them, without even my idiot brother Alfred around to act as a buffer.

  He smoothed down Bess’s hair, which I didn’t like, because the silence meant he was thinking someth
ing up. Being of money, he was therefore to be liked and trusted, even if he’d been living too much of the good life recently, evidenced by his portlyness. He donned a cravat and shirt below black weskit with top hat, very respectable and I felt in good company.

  “Why are you here anyway?”

  He took another pull from his cigar and spat into the straw. “Jack, your father and I have a few matters of business to discuss. But matters of settling a few old scores with him have nothing to do with your ears, so I’ll spare you the particulars.”

  And with that, I knew not to push the matter further. Luther had always despised the old man for the adultery and misery he put my mother through and with my father, apparently in debt, my uncle was likely salivating at the chance to throw some misery back, which meant the Strapper estate would be even more toxic come tomorrow.

  “How is the old man anyway? Still drinking, gambling and whoring away the wealth?”

  I’d witnessed at least two within five minutes of arriving back. “He suggested I join the army.” I said, quite off handedly as I joined my uncle in petting Bess.

  His hand stopped within her mane. “And what did you tell him?”

  I laughed because he asked with such a neutral expression. “Well, it was a joke, surely. Me, in the army? I’m fully aware he’d love nothing more than to be shot of me, but can you imagine me in front of the enemy?” I laughed again at the absurdity of it.

  His expression remained the same, which was now getting silly. “Why not? You could have a comfortable life as a cavalry officer. You can ride, I assume?”

  It would be hard to deny the fact, given we were petting one of our horses. I’d been riding my entire life and it was probably the one thing I was gifted at - Well, that and plunging myself into deep messes beyond my control.

  “Of course, I can ride, but I can think of nothing more petrifying than facing a line of musketry across a battlefield, or God forbid, enemy cavalry.” My hands literally shook from having this conversation, which had to say something.

  He continued to study me, somehow weighing me up and I didn’t like the way his bushy brown brows encircled his eyes. “You don’t read the papers, do you son, and I also assume that expensive public school that contributed to your father’s impending bankruptcy didn’t keep you much in the loop of things either?”

  “What in the blazes are you talking about?” The man was getting tiresome and I had a future to contemplate as well as mistresses to avoid.

  He shook his head with impatience. “There are no more wars! We pasted the Chinese and forced them to buy our opium and the Crimea ended four years ago. And let me tell you this,” he shook his fist in what could only be described as some sort of pride in his nation, “there’s nobody left who’d dare mess with Britannia. Even the bloody French have learned their lesson, finally.” And now he reached over Bess to place a hand on my shoulder. “Son, if you sign up, there’s nothing that’ll happen except that maybe you’ll be given some dashing uniform the ladies’ll swoon for and perhaps you’ll get posted off to some far off distant and exotic land of the Empire, and who wouldn’t want that? Oh, sure, there’ll be the odd skirmish with the local rabble rousers but didn’t we just put that Indian mutiny down swiftly, right, old boy?”

  “Huh…” I tried to let it sink in. “No more wars, aye?” I mean, there was no way I’d be so bloody stupid as to sign up, but he did paint rather a romantic picture and I could quite picture myself in dashing cavalry overalls and sabre the ladies would be sure to go for, just so long as I never had to use the damned thing. I’d have to avoid India, naturally, and all sorts of other nasty places, but I quite fancied The Cape or Bermuda. But of course it was all nonsense, so I flapped a hand at him. “Well, if you’re lucky, you’ll catch the old man awake and not fagged out drunk and drooling in his chair.”

  He took a final tug on his cigar before grinding it into the straw, hardly the sensible thing to do. “You don’t know about my line of work, do you, son?”

  My mother had once mentioned something about him being in the military but at that point I’d never even met the man so hadn’t very much cared or listened.

  “Jack, I hold an administrative position at the Horse Guards and I have my say in who gets sent and where. What if I were to pull a few strings and have you posted to a nice safe cavalry regiment in a place where nothing much happens or is ever likely to?”

  I flinched, because here was this stranger arriving from nowhere with, what at face value, seemed like a genuine and generous offer that would solve all my problems. But there was a hitch that I’d yet to even consider, because uncle Luther was not of the common Strappers, but of the aristocratic Rocheforts, which meant that now, with my mother dead, he had no reason to do a good turn for a Strapper in need. The fact he was here, probably with the intention of having the estate signed over to him for all I knew, was testament that I ought to be sceptical.

  “You’d really do this for me?”

  Again, he reached over Bess to place a hand on my shoulder. “Son, we’re family, aren’t we?”

  I considered him as he displayed his teeth for my benefit. “Which regiment did you have in mind?”

  He had one of those faces you could probably trust and possessed the smallest resemblance to my mother and now, after my question, his smile grew wider, which put me at ease. “Well, let’s see, there’d be several worthy of taking a look at, but the one I had in mind was the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars.” It meant nothing to me and he must have seen my blank expression. “Irish, as in Ireland, my boy.”

  I stepped back as something in my belly lurched to the side, which, as I should have known, is instinct. And instinct should always be listened to. “Ireland? I thought you said you’d send me to a place where nothing’s ever likely to happen? The Irish are always rabble rousing.”

  He raised his voice. “The Irish make up almost a third of the British army and those who don’t fight for Britannia are busy building our railways. They know which side their bread’s buttered.” I didn’t know what that expression even meant. “And an easier life you’ll not find in all the Empire.” He now placed a hand on each of my shoulders, which made me trust him all the more. “Never fear, my boy. Even if there was a war on, which there aint, but even if there was, after the Crimean War, the 8th are in no position to fight just yet anyway.”

  “Why? What happened?” It sounded bad and I had to know.

  “They lost a half of their number during that bloody Charge of the Light Brigade fiasco and they’re still only at half strength. When you arrive in Ireland it’s likely they’ll give you a nice billet before putting you to work touting for new recruits. And they don’t take just anybody in the cavalry, did you know, no my son, but you’ll be mixing with the upper classes, with high society.”

  “Indeed. Well, there you have it. Not bad for a lad who got kicked out of Eton, aye?”

  He clapped me on the back. “Exactly.”

  Having no other options, I resigned myself to the idea. There was though, the small matter of the purchasing of my captaincy but strangely, Uncle Luther agreed to speak to my father about settling that, who not to my surprise, and despite being in the hole, was more than happy to stump up the £3225 to get shot of me. Not only that, but Luther also managed to broker for me an allowance of £1000 a year, which apparently my father agreed to without hesitation - Charming.

  The only problem was, I still had nearly two weeks of waiting around on the estate until my papers arrived from Horse Guards and I could sail for Ireland. It made for a few awkward meals in which I never could quite tell whether Mrs Clayton had indeed blabbed.

  Uneasy Feelings

  As fate would have it, I turned eighteen during the painful wait for my permission slips and confirmation of captaincy to arrive via courier. I used the time to brush up on my riding skills, practice jabbing at a hanging bag with a stick, avoiding my father and his whore and to grow cavalry whiskers. Now, I didn’t join the army to get
into anything physical, so I reasoned that the more manly I projected myself, the less likely trouble was to find me. I’d also pegged on that the ladies had a thing for a man with cavalry whiskers or, if they didn’t, they soon would.

  My spirits were high and my purse heavy as the coach arrived at the docks in Liverpool, a city if there ever was one, built on Paddy immigration. But as the driver pulled away, leaving me alone in this filthy and unfamiliar pit in the northernmost reaches of our country, I was struck by two things.

  Firstly, given I was to be spending untold years living around the Irish and doing Irish things, whatever that entailed, I realised I’d never actually met one. This was doubly vexing when considering the nature of the family business.

  Second and most worrying of all, given that Liverpool was supposedly the most advanced port system in the world, which happened to face Ireland, there were no ships actually from there. East India Company ships, British, Spanish, American, even French ships meandered in and out of the channels - But no Irish? Did they not trade? Did they not by the hundred thousand offload their burdensome countrymen upon the English?

  Encountering my first Mick, who stood in a group of several short, threadbare, ginger haired men with curly whiskers of his ilk, I strained my ears to overhear the conversation between swigs from a bottle of whisky they passed around between them.

  “Why do yee suppose dat is?”

  “Dunno, dey says da boats won’t be comin’ in.”

  “Da boats won’t be comin’ in? What does yee means, da boats won’t be comin’ in?”

  “I mean dey says da boats won’t be comin’ in. And no boats means no work and no work means no drink.”

  “No boats?” At this point the man swooned from early morning inebriation. “But I was expecting my cousins? All twelve of dem.”

  Struggling to comprehend barely a single word of their fast flowing faux English, I grabbed my luggage and stamped toward the ticket office where, between funny looks from the inspector, I managed to ascertain there were no problems with boats leaving for Ireland and that mine was expected to leave on time. I recalled the gibberish I’d overheard earlier and almost made further enquiries but then thought better of it, whilst hoping the Paddies where I was heading weren’t quite so stupid through drink.