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

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Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 13

by K. Bartholomew


  I swallowed and took the other one without putting up any resistance. What was the point in fighting it anyway? They wanted me to eat deer testacle so I’d eat deer testacle.

  The evening was slightly better after that. All I had to do was drag thirty corpses into the hole, cover them up and then succumb to spending another night tied to a post. This time the flag post on the fort roof.

  The Horde

  It was the vibrations that roused me, where I stood pinned to the pole and although I couldn’t see them, I could hear them muttering in Paddy to my rear. The string chafed against my naked back and I looked up to see the colour slowly rising and blowing in the breeze.

  “What are you doing?” I wheezed but received no response.

  Now it was day, I could see the view from atop the fort. Or at least what was straight ahead of me, for the lake lay over my shoulders. But in front there was nothing but dense forestry, which could only mean the dead would be close by.

  The thirty that Quinn dispatched of yesterday wouldn’t be the last of them and I assumed they’d remained at the fort for the simple reason they had nowhere else to go. Now we were here the next flock couldn’t be far away.

  “I don’t understand,” I croaked, “you were meant to secure the fort…”

  It was Lynch who emerged, looking surprisingly neat, his whiskers trimmed and blond hair combed to the side. “We have secured the fort. What are you getting at?”

  I craned my neck upwards, to where the rag was now at full mast. “But the colour? They’ll see it. Why tempt fate?”

  He shook his head and stepped up to my face. “I’m not surprised you don’t understand, you lowly worm. We’re here with our colour, we’ve retaken the fort and now we want to see her fly in all her glory.”

  I was wrong to expect even the slightest possibility of him making a sensible decision regarding that tattered piece of cloth. Not that I cared about him, his men, the fort and certainly not the bloody colour - But I did care about one thing.

  “Listen to me, Lynch…they will see it! And then they will come. Thirty may not be a problem for a psychopath with a blade and his boys to back him up, but you don’t know how many are lurking out there.” I’d have pointed out yonder, if only my hands weren’t bound so obscenely tight around the pole which creaked with every strain of my body.

  He grabbed ahold of my jaw and squeezed. “That colour is not for the dead, it’s for us, for morale. The dead don’t care about the colour. All they want is your insides, Strappy, and I intend on giving it them. And if I hear you, some jumped up fraudster from England, talking about my colour one more time, I won’t save you for the dead, I’ll fillet you myself.” He pointed up and I saw a hint of adoration in his eye. “And I will die before my colour is removed from that mast.”

  “Me too.” Growled a voice from my blind side and then Quinn emerged, evidently having been there all along. Of course, being the so called colour sergeant, it was his job to babysit the shabby scrap of rag, which seemed all he was good for. He ran his knife over the whiskers I was so proud of, cutting away my beautifully shaped hair. “Cavalry whiskers is for cavalrymen, boy.”

  Lynch meanwhile, having left me to be tormented by his underling, was busy surveying the distant trees with an eyeglass before barking down below an order to gather wood for a large fire in front of the opened wall. What were their plans and now, having secured the fort, why weren’t they loading supplies and making preparations for the trip back north to Strabane? Fort Garrison was supposedly loaded with goods and supplies and I’d yet to hear Lynch issue an order to secure or account for any of it. No, these imbeciles were more content with lingering here as long as possible, to kill more of the dead and inventing new and elaborate ways of punishing me.

  Lynch patted the ogre on the back and then disappeared, leaving me alone with Quinn, the one thing I’d wanted to avoid.

  He sat on the rampart which was really a wall extending barely to the man’s knees and I wondered how much stone the nearby Micks had pilfered over the years to build their shacks and huts, stripping the so called fort of its defensive capabilities and historical value. Indeed, a cursory glance at the landscape revealed several barns built from stone with a curious resemblance in colour, size and cut to that of the fort.

  At least, for the meantime anyway, Quinn was content to sit and smoke a cheroot whilst tapping his foot and occasionally glancing upwards to admire his charge.

  What more was there for me to do? I could engage the man in conversation but what would be the outcome other than a cigar burn to the face?

  It was cold atop the tower, shirtless as I was and every few minutes a gust of wind would cut me with a fresh nip and the flag would flutter loudly and the mast would shudder and creak as though it was made of rusty old Paddy iron.

  The forest stretched far beyond the horizon all across my field of vision and there were occasions, although I couldn’t be certain, but the forest floor would flicker, drawing my attention but then it was gone and later I’d see the same thing but in a different location like small movements were taking place, but I was going mad up here and so I dismissed the notion that the forest was moving or at the very least the wind was playing a devil with so many trees, and my mind.

  I’d shut my eyes and try to sleep, but I couldn’t, not with that man so close and it was those moments I’d blabber out whatever was on my mind; Old Tubs, Clayton, Mrs Clayton, my darned whiskers and that I just wanted to go home. The hours past and once or twice Quinn even laughed at my gibbering.

  And then in a rare moment of daring do, I spoke directly to the big man. “Colour Sergeant, are you here to guard me or the colour?”

  He stood from his perch and stepped closer. “Yee sure have a high ‘pinion of yeeself. Der’s no getting away for yee…I’m here for da colour.”

  I had to be careful not to irritate this unpredictable scoundrel and so I spoke with as much respect as I could. “Tell me, please, Colour Sergeant…what will you do if the dead arrive?”

  “What’s it to you?” The man without his helmet had a head of thick red hair, curly and unmanageable and possessed ginger cavalry whiskers like so many in the 8th.

  “Nothing…I was always curious, that’s all. You see, without me, there’s only eight of you, or seven if your job is to stay up here when the horde arrives. I’ve seen you fight…how will the rest cope without you if they’re severely outnumbered?”

  He didn’t answer my question directly, but simply spoke like he was reciting a line that’d been drummed into his thick skull. “My job is to protect the colour.”

  Which, in sorts, gave me my answer as well as demonstrated the sheer madness of these people and the entire military system I’d been tricked into joining. I decided to finish the conversation by saying something unexpected, just to see how he’d react. “Well, if anyone can protect the colour, it’s you Colour Sergeant.”

  He narrowed his eyes and frowned before returning to sit on the edge to stare out at whatever his friends were plotting below.

  Midday came and went and so did most of the afternoon and it was during a particular strong gust of wind, not especially cold, but chilling nonetheless when I heard it.

  At first it was so faint there was no knowing whether it was the wind playing songs on the walls or the breeze fluttering the leaves on the trees.

  But the sound was continuous and indeed changed its rhythm like the wind.

  Next came the vibration, which could not be mistaken for the weather. It wasn’t heavy but light and constant, which I only noticed because I’d been stood on the same spot for hours. Lynch on the other hand, who sat or plodded aimlessly about the ramparts remained unaware.

  Finally, I saw them. The trees in the middle distance twitched or shuddered, one or two of the smaller ones even bending from the weight of the masses. There were areas less densely green that absolutely moved, torsos, necks and even heads clearly visible.

  They were coming.

  And
now even Quinn saw it and shouted down to his comrades. “Dead approaching, fifteen, twenty minutes at most.” Something in incomprehensible Mick was returned, to which Quinn responded, “hundreds!”

  Personally, I considered that a weak estimate. “Quinn, you’ve seen them…they’re coming, now listen to me…”

  He whipped around on me “…listen to yee? I t’ink not laddy.”

  I stamped my foot, which was about all I could do. “No, listen…it’s the bloody colour, you damned fool. You have to take it down.”

  He twitched and scratched his head, like he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard my words and their accompanying insolence. “Excuse me? Could yee repeat dat please?”

  “Oh, you heard me. Take it down! Every bloody dead man from here to Cork can see that thing, confound it, now remove it and that’s an order.” It was a futile effort, I knew that much.

  He stepped closer and gave me an almost comical look. “What was dat, sir? You’re issuing orders now, are yee? You’d like me to remove the regiment’s honour, would yee? I’d sooner take a runnin’ leap from dis roof, so I would, yee understand me boy?”

  What was the use? None of them had any more sense than the dead who were even now on their way, loosening their jaws in preparation for the coming bounty.

  And whatever the rest of them were doing below, their activities now intensified with the clanging and clattering becoming more regular, the shouting and swearing more urgent.

  The minutes past as I became more and more anxious and the horrific thing was, the lug to my fore barely roused to the impending threat. He could’ve been stood on the golf course, awaiting his turn on a Sunday morning for all he cared.

  Then we were greeted by the next warning sign.

  Out from the trees ran hundreds of deer.

  From the darkness they emerged, panicked, bleating, clattering antlers into trees and each other. They were a force that would crush anything in its path not rooted with deep foundations and then they fanned out to avoid crashing into the fort and for minutes the herd continued, frightened out of their collective mind.

  One thing they’d succeeded in doing - They’d caught Quinn’s attention and now he froze, his jaw slack, skin white. Surely, now he’d listen to reason?

  “It’s the colour, you bloody fool! Oh to the blazes with it…what use is it speaking to you when you’re so pigheaded to listen.” The spit frothed at my mouth, I was that terrified of what was coming. “They’ll engulf us all…why can’t you see it?”

  He looked over the edge, to me and between several times, tugging at his red whiskers. Finally, he looked up and paused, almost like gazing at the shoddy cloth gave him renewed vigour for his life purpose, his raison d’etre.

  And then he clamped a large sweaty hand around my throat. “Yee’ve had not’ing but disrespect for da colours ever since yee arrived, yee English worm.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to the troopers below. “And if…if what yee say is correct…den…den…those fighting men down yonder will need to know dat der colour is up here, still flying, looking out for dem, like a mother…showing…showing dem dat we still hold dis place…dat, um, dat da 8th is still here and in control. Dat colour gives dem somet’ing to fight and die for.” He let go with a final push, cracking my head against the post. “And as long as I have breat’ left in me, dat colour remains.” And he indicated his comrades with the flourish of a hand. “And dey’d all say da same t’ing to a man.”

  Oh, how I dreamed of meeting this man again under different circumstances, perhaps showing up in Sussex, begging for work where I could turf him away with a boot up the backside. It’d never happen of course because none of us would escape this blasted fort.

  Then the sound became a hum, louder, because through the final layer of trees they could see their quarry.

  Seconds later the first carbine reported, a useless shot, fired in panic. Another one reeled off soon after which was closely followed by Lynch barking an order at them to hold their fire.

  It was in the air - Everyone knew it, we could all feel it.

  They say there’s a calm before every storm, where there’s silence before hell unleashes itself upon you. I’m here to tell you it’s not quite like that, at least not when the dead, who you thought were attacking in their hundreds arrived instead in their thousands. No, there is no calm, at least not when your name’s Captain Jack Strapper. Because you’re anxious and praying to your deity even through the so called tranquility, when the older and crippled deer finally exit the forest mere paces from their chasers, when front row trees snap under their weight, when the stench of rot and death and years of decay finally reaches your nostrils and then…

  …you see them.

  THERE WAS A CLEAR WINNER.

  A young former man with long gangly legs who emerged ten or twelve paces before the next and was subsequently brought down for his trouble with a bullet between the eyes.

  The next was also a long streak of urine and carried with him part of what was probably a deer carcass. He chewed whilst staggering toward the fort before falling into a ditch and disappearing from sight.

  Then three appeared together, all dressed in rags, each likewise tall as the previous. They were allowed closer before being brought down by volley fire.

  Then they came in their dozens and those not falling into the ditches were easily picked off by sporadic carbine fire. My line of sight was cut off about thirty paces from the tree line, which gave me enough room to see the sheer numbers of dead, and many of them being put down, but once they advanced too far and were cut off by the angle of the rampart, I could only guess as to what the men were doing to take them down. I pictured them hastily reloading whilst going insane from fear - But then, I couldn’t really relate to them.

  Quinn would have the perfect view and from relative, albeit temporary safety. But all he did was watch, one foot propped on the low wall whilst he played with his carbine.

  The dozens became hundreds and whilst they were mainly still clustered in packs, there were those that angled aimlessly outwards.

  I could see Lynch’s tactics now. The stray dead were brought down by carbine or pistol fire, each shot expertly aimed, but now a new weapon was employed to deal with the larger packs of dead, who were crammed so close they often stumbled over their neighbour’s foot.

  The blast shook the very floor on which I stood and even Quinn stepped back from the edge. Almost simultaneously, the ball smashed through them, opening a clean line and spraying a cloud of red that stretched back fifteen ranks before the corpses put paid to the cannon ball’s forward momentum.

  But cannons were notoriously burdensome to reload, requiring cold water to extinguish the heat and flames that still remained after the shot had been fired, a fresh batch of powder rammed down its gullet followed by a strenuously heavy iron ball. With ten guns, each with a fully trained six man crew, the horde might easily have been kept at a distance, but with one gun and seven cavalrymen?

  The throng closed up as more of them took the place of their predecessors while still, they materialised from the trees, thicker than ever. They were getting closer now and then the cannon roared once more, though this time they didn’t fire a heavy ball to obliterate all in its path.

  No, this time they fired a bag of nails - Shrapnel that fanned out on ignition, scattering itself amongst the dead, striking two thirds of their width in one blast. They were hit everywhere, legs, chests, arms, but they required a head shot and only a fraction of those struck went down.

  The carbine fire intensified, but it was still too sporadic to pay and the dead would never stop coming anyway and then, just on the edge of my field of vision, they began dropping into the ditches. These ditches were larger and I was impressed Lynch and his men had managed to dig them in such quick time and by the twenty, they fell in and disappeared, their heads barely showing above the earth. They crawled and clawed at each other, desperately trying to escape, to reach their living prey.

  Two h
eads bobbed up, right where my vision was cut off and I recognised the bastard Lynch. Something bright was thrown into the pit and then something else and then more and more and the whole thing ignited. The fire spread like a slow moving wave as the dead continued to fall inside the trap, the occasional foe who succeeded in escaping quickly brought down by a well placed bullet.

  Likewise, those who had the sense or instinct or were simply pushed too far out to avoid the ditches were raked down by volleys, with only a rare lucky one creeping close enough to be slashed by the sabre.

  But now they were being sabred - They’d made it, if only a trickle and even if, at this point, they were easily dealt with in such small numbers.

  They made no sounds - To be burned and nothing. How else could they be described other than they were not of this life. The smells - Burning flesh that seared your lungs with every poisonous inhalation. And all the while, as they neared, I was pinned to a flagpole, unable to run, unable to hide, unable even to defend myself should they make it into the fort, up the spiral steps, to the top, to where I waited, helpless, to be consumed.

  And they would make it!

  It was inevitable because still they came from the trees.

  Would Quinn fight for me?

  No way!

  Besides, I’d do anything not to have to find out.

  “Quinn!” I screamed above the gunfire, the burning, the death. He didn’t move, hypnotised as he was at the spectacle below. “Quinn!”

  He jerked and turned to me but I jumped straight in before he had chance to ask.

  “Please, release me, man, for the love of the colours, if nothing else. I can help…listen to me…give me a sword and I can make my contribution.” It was all gammon of course, and the minute I was let loose I’d be swimming through the Lough Nevin for freedom.

  “Feck off! If yee t’ink I’m releasing yee den yee must t’ink I’m a feckin eejit.” And he laughed and I saw the madness in his laugh, as if I didn’t already know it was futile reasoning with him.

 

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