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

by K. Bartholomew

  What if Dolan somehow bungled his simple chore? Or worse - Gave me the wrong pistol? It was the kind of task where a hundred different things could go skewed and as we approached the group, I flicked my eyes once toward the ginger Irishman I hoped would save my life as he cleaned out his ears with a rag.

  Once that job was out the way, Dolan then took to examining the pistols next to the sawbones, who seemed more taken to his bottle than anything else. Then Dolan dropped his ramrod in the grass and motioned for the surgeon to pick it up, if you’d be so kind good sir.

  That was the moment of life or death and typical me, I couldn’t look a second longer.

  Major Murphy stood with my nemesis and two other officers I recalled as being on Fitzgibbon’s staff. There was another man whom I didn’t recognise at all, with a sallow face and long overcoat he hitched up against the cold, but in the moment I had no time nor desire to make further enquiries as to his identity. Murphy gave me a pained stare before pushing up his spectacles. “Gentleman, is there any way this can be resolved without resorting to such nasty business?”

  I stared coolly ahead as the wind blew through my hair. Lynch, who’d stripped off to the waist, revealing his war wounds, glared at me, menacingly as ever and likewise said nothing.

  It was definitely going ahead then and there was yet another urge for me to run into the trees from where I could evacuate my bowels, but I would not give Lynch the satisfaction.

  Murphy, who seemed to be taking it worse than anybody apart from myself, held his eyes shut for a while before sending us to our marks. “That’s ten paces each, gentleman.”

  I breathed and set off at a stride, counting out the ten paces in my head. When I turned around, I was shocked at how close Lynch stood. I never prayed, but I did in that moment because if Dolan had somehow lost his nerve, I couldn’t see Lynch missing from this distance.

  Then Dolan approached Lynch, holding out his hand which contained a pistol. Lynch cocked the weapon and I heard it click before he lowered the pistol in readiness.

  Now Dolan approached me and I watched him make the full twenty paces in slow motion. Bigad, but his ridiculous ginger mutton chops and twitching face would not be the last thing I ever saw. Ten paces away then five then two and he held out the weapon giving me a wink.

  My heart soared and I took the pistol and felt the hope brim inside. I would live to fornicate another day.

  “Gentleman,” called out Major Murphy holding up a white kerchief, “when I drop my handkerchief, you may fire when ready. I shall drop it in a few seconds hence.”

  Silence from the many hundreds present, save for the odd remark that carried over on the breeze.

  “Oh, bejeesis, but how cool does Strappy look?”

  “He’ll look even cooler in a minute.”

  “Quiet!” Chastised another.

  The white rag fell and Lynch raised his pistol immediately, firing off his round.

  I felt searing heat whizz past my cheek, for a moment wondering if the idiot Dolan had properly charged the pistol but no, if he had then Lynch wouldn’t have missed and so I knew it must have been the wadding.

  “God save Ireland.” Murmured many voices in unison, followed by more shouts to be silent because it wasn’t over yet and surely now Strappy, who was a proven killer, would put Lynch down.

  Twenty paces away, he stood sidewards on, his eye patch closest to me and he mouthed something I never did get to discover. His life was mine and I could now remove this obstacle forever.

  Then I did the last thing anybody expected…

  I raised the pistol and fired into the sky just as, and I didn’t know it at the time, a low flying pigeon darted out from the trees. The bird exploded in mid air as the spectators erupted into applause.

  Dolan beamed, rubbing his hands together. Sheehan gaped. Murphy had fallen to his knees in prayer. And Lynch had already begun stalking away into the crowds, who now came forth to envelop me.

  A brace of likely looking lads approached first and raised me onto their shoulders before commencing to parade me about the spectators.

  “Bravo sir, bravo!”

  “Did you see him take that pigeon?”

  “He’d have had One Eye’d Jack’s other peeper for sure.”

  “Captain Strapper must be the best shooter in Ireland.”

  From my lofty position I could see the colonel gritting his teeth and beside him, his wife Lady Fitzgibbon, elegant as ever and straining her neck for a better view of myself.

  The whole farce couldn’t have gone any better. I’d demonstrated yet more bravery, apparently, and in addition had shown myself an honourable man by showing up to defend my name and reputation. Now nobody could level the charge of dishonour at my person, no matter how true it may be. I’d also shown myself to be chivalrous and a crack shot, who could easily have taken out Lynch had I chosen to do so. And I wasn’t to know it then but I’d augmented my fame and reputation in Ireland and beyond.

  Indeed, there were calls in England to have their national hero and ‘greatest soldier since Wellington’ brought home so that a spectacle could be made of me and that I could be decorated and meet the Queen and all the rest. In fact, I later found out there were even public demonstrations in the newly completed Trafalgar Square, the occasional lunatic demanding the statue of Nelson be replaced by Captain Jack Strapper - It never was of course but I did get a statue of myself placed over the vacant fourth plinth that guarded over our great Admiral and to this day, I share the square with the likes of King George IV, General Sir Charles James Napier and Major-General Sir Henry Havelock.

  Of course, right now, I was still stuck in Ireland from where finally, news of the dead or ‘zombies’ coming back to life had reached print in England, which only intensified calls to have me brought out, and the whole of the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars too if necessary, if only it would guarantee my safety.

  Had I known about any of this, I wouldn’t have argued.

  But back in 1858 I had other problems to deal with and the first problem went by the name of Captain Dolan, who saw fit to call round at my residence the evening of the duelling affair, in order to make enquiries upon a certain twenty thousand pounds he’d been promised by a one Captain Jack Strapper.

  “Yes?” I asked after opening the door, raising an impatient eyebrow his way. I was donned in my gown and had a brace of harlots waiting upstairs.

  He baulked and looked at me as though I’d gone mad. “Yes? What in Saint Patrick’s name, do you mean, yes? You know damn well why I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry?” I bit my lip and frowned. “I do?”

  He stepped back, then comically forward again, twitching the whole time. “Yes! Come on Strapper, don’t play the goat with me…I saved your life today.”

  I scratched my head. “I’m not sure I’m aware of what you’re speaking, Captain.”

  He knew it then, that he’d been stiffed and his expression was a picture. “You…you…you’re not doing this to me Captain, I’ll have you for this.” His clenched fist absolutely shook and seemed in three minds whether to strike me or not, or reach for his pistol, which thankfully he didn’t. “Now you just listen here, Captain. I carried out my side of the bargain and now you must stump up the agreed sum…twenty thousand pounds sterling, you hear me?”

  I checked my timepiece and glanced over my shoulder to the stairs. “Twenty thousand pounds sterling? Why, you must be mad, Captain. That’s enough to purchase three lieutenant-colonelcies with change leftover for your whore.” Who was presently upstairs awaiting my return, but I wouldn’t tell him that. “I can’t imagine where you got that idea. Now, if there’s nothing else…I have two madams up yonder to entertain.”

  His mouth plunged open, his ginger chops like broom heads on his face. “You…you’re unspeakable, Strapper. I’ll have you for this…you’ll see.” In the moment, I almost believed him but we both knew he couldn’t run to the colonel about any of it. He was in it thicker than I was and i
f word of this got out it’d be a dishonourable disgrace for him, discharge from the cavalry and most likely a life of shame shunned from society - Nope, I knew my man, and that he wasn’t stupid enough to do anything rash.

  Of course, my pretending not to know anything about it only riled him up further and looking back, if only I’d known, perhaps I should have taken less pleasure in the moment and at least sent him on his way with an apology because I didn’t possess the necessary tin. But no, I had to play ignorance, didn’t I, the dishonourable rogue that I was and sent him away swearing vengeance by any means necessary - If only I’d known at the time what he’d end up doing to me, I probably would have just paid him, twice, even thrice over - I’d have saved myself from arguably the worst experience of my life.

  COLONEL FITZGIBBON HAD FINISHED BOARDING his wife. Unfortunately for us, they now took tea at the table in the room’s corner, speaking mostly waffle about the night’s impending theatre, of which they intended on seeing Charles Kean’s The Corsican Brothers at the Adelphi.

  “I must say, good sir, the more of your story you regale me with, the more I’m convinced you’re destined for a career in law.” He tapped my hand. “If we ever get out of our present predicament, you really must look me up. We could use a man like you in the firm.”

  I was busy watching the flickering shadows through the table cloth, trying to discern what they were doing, where they were and above all, when in the blazes they’d leave. It was still afternoon, which meant potentially a long wait until their sojourn to the auditorium. “Sorry, not for me, couldn’t handle the pay cut.”

  “Ah, touché, my friend.” His bushy eyebrows moved closer together. “Lord Fitzgibbon despises you, you say? And all for such a minor slight as insensitivity?”

  I shook my head. “Oh, I’m sure that if it was merely my insensitivity then eventually he’d have forgotten all about it. No, sir…What I’m about to divulge tops all else and then some besides…well, all apart from mounting his wife perhaps?” Which was why I was determined not to be discovered where I presently slumped, not too unlike a common slug.

  It was hard to hear my own voice and even harder to hear Melville above the boom of the colonel’s, the silly deaf sod.

  “Ah, Earl Grey, so it is…thought I recognised the zing, what?”

  “It’s not Earl Grey, you have lemon in there.”

  A brief pause. “Ah, so there is…haw…haw…haw. How on earth did I miss that?”

  “Would you take a scone with your tea?”

  “A scone? I don’t see why not…pass the condiments, my dear. Ah, I see you’ve been riding…a nice day for it, what? No, no, just the jam will do.”

  “It’s raspberry jam, which you hate…you know how much I desire a mid afternoon ride with Claudette…here, have the strawberry instead.”

  “Claudette, what?” A brief pause. “I thought Claudette had been bucking somewhat recently? And a knife, if you would be so kind.”

  “There’s no such thing as bad horses, only bad riders. John, you’re dripping over the table cloth.”

  “I am? Oh dear. Ah, well, glad you sorted her out…nothing worse than a horse you can’t ride, eating all the hay and giving nothing back, what? Ah, I see you’ve donned your top hat. Wear that coming from Lady Carrington’s did you? Darling, you know that’s for behind closed doors only.”

  “Oh, John, I thought we could crank things up a notch.”

  “Oh, did you bejesus? Haw…haw…haw…”

  Ten seconds later the table recommenced shuddering.

  And Melville rubbed his bald head. “She’s wearing my hat.”

  The Idiotic Expedition South

  “I’ve never seen such a shameful display.” It was one of the only times I ever saw the colonel’s ridiculous iron bar moustache move and right now it was positively lopsided by at least five degrees, its tar having failed the man on this day. “By Jove, if you’re going to break the law and start duelling, the least one of you can do is kill the other one, what? My regiment will be the laughing stock of Britannia, and you Lynch…claiming to be our best shot…haw…haw…haw…well that’s all gone to the blazes now, what?”

  Captain Lynch hadn’t once glanced at me since we entered the colonel’s office. “Sir, if I may…there was a stiff breeze and…”

  “…You were at twenty paces, by God…a child could hit a six foot man at that distance and you Strapper, you insensitive swine, why didn’t you finish him off instead of making a mockery of the battalion?”

  I debated in my mind whether to say it, but I couldn’t sink any lower in the man’s estimation anyway - No matter what my heroics. “I fancied pigeon pie, sir.”

  He thumped the table. “Damn you Strapper, and damn your presence in my regiment.”

  For a moment I dared to hope, dared to dream he’d send me back home either with or without my credit and honour intact. I didn’t give a damn either way, just as long as I didn’t get hurt. Instead, and much to my mortification, he dropped the whole damned point at issue and introduced the sallow looking chap I recognised from the duel, who’d been loitering in the shadows behind Fitzgibbon’s chair. “I’d like you both to meet Mr Pumphrey who’s here from Horse Guards.”

  The individual had a crooked face that one instantly disliked, as had the colonel from the look of him and the tonality of his voice from the less than enthusiastic introduction. Should the colonel not wanting him around mean that I should?

  Pumphrey took one small step forward and didn’t offer to shake our hands. “Gentleman.” He said instead with the merest tipping of his head, prim and proper in his London cut suit and educated home counties accent, not unlike my own, and I wondered if he’d also be acquainted with Old Tubs’ birch.

  The colonel cut in. “Mr Pumphrey is here to assess the regiment and make resolutions on funding and other such nonsense. As usual the government’s short on tin and even with Ireland facing annihilation, decisions have to be made as to the 8th’s viability as an independent regiment.”

  Pumphrey stepped forward again. “Look fellows, I won’t waste your time…you all know I’m not here to be liked, but somewhere, some regiment will have to either disband or else merge into one of the other, larger regiments.”

  Fitzgibbon slammed the table with a closed fist and shouted in his usual booming voice which I was sure could be heard all the way to Strabane. “The only reason we’re no longer a large regiment is because we lost half our number at the Charge, sir, fighting and dying for Britannia.” Ooh, how scornful the words.

  Pumphrey conceded with a small bow. “I’m aware that’s the case, my lord. The 8th are one of the bravest regiments in Britannia and easily one of the finest cavalry regiments in all the world, but…reputation alone will not fund you into perpetuity and I suggest, saving for some miraculous act of soldiering on the regiment’s part, that you consider the likelihood of merging with an English regiment of horse.”

  I was absolutely salivating at this. And there I was, fully expecting to be riding out in two days hence, surrounded by more than a hundred blood thirsty lunatics hell bent on seeing their’s, and everybody else’s, blood shed just to save a few others.

  However, I had to admit the “saving for some miraculous act of soldiering on the regiment’s part,” did worry me a little, but it would have to take a miracle surely?

  And I’d been wondering why myself, a mere captain, along with Lynch, were being made privy to this information before everyone else, considering neither of us were exactly popular with the commanding officer right now. I soon found out why.

  “Now, as for the pair of you,” Fitzgibbon began, “let’s show Mr Pumphrey it’s all bridge over the water and done business, now, what? Shake hands the two of you, that’s an order.”

  I turned immediately to Lynch and grinned but thought better of making a remark about his wife - No, I was better than that, marginally.

  He slowly swivelled his head my way, his feet remaining rooted, his one eye piercing t
hrough me like cold steel. “Why didn’t you just shoot me?”

  “Now, now, Captain, I didn’t tell you where to place your shot, so don’t you presume to tell me where to put mine.” I said, holding out my hand as Pumphrey stifled a laugh and even the colonel smiled at that one.

  He took my hand, his grip cold and hard and in the moment I felt a chill from the man.

  “Good.” The colonel said as Pumphrey manoeuvred around the table to approach me.

  “I must say, Captain Strapper, I was mighty impressed at what you did this morning. Horse Guards will hear about your heroics, you can be sure about that.”

  I had two regrets with this - One; that I may have inadvertently done myself a mischief by not shooting Lynch, if I, and the regiment by extension received credit for my earlier actions. And two; that during my praise, Pumphrey blocked both the colonel and Lynch from my line of sight.

  If listening to the colonel moaning and fussing and complaining and whining the one time wasn’t enough, I then had to sit through it again when he called a general meeting of all officers in the mess that very afternoon. And if the colonel had felt the need to restrain his feelings in the presence of Pumphrey, now the toff was supposedly out and about surveying our garrison, Fitzgibbon now unleashed it without holding back.

  “I will not have it! You understand? One hundred and seventy years of history, fighting for Britannia, will not be rolled up and swept away like we never even existed, by God.” I could almost see the steam rising from his grey hair. “They’re reshuffling regiments about like they were damned pieces on a chess board…money you see…means more to these people than history, tradition, soldiering…and to even suggest absorbing us…us…into some damned English regiment. Balaklava, Inkerman, Sevastopol, Crimea…the feckin’ Charge, by God.” He went on to name a bunch of other long gone battles the 8th had apparently been involved in, all of them news to me, and he was probably unaware how he clutched at his crossbelt throughout the speech. “All our dead…oh, they’d spin in their graves, so they would. But I will not have this happen on my watch, you understand me? No sir, not on mine.”