Sensing all was about to be lost, the sergeants and corporals now charged forward, adding their meagre weight to the already fallen. The dead buckled slightly but it was only temporary and then what remaining infantry there were found themselves being quickly enveloped from all sides.
I twisted around and vomited over the watchtower rail, only to see the various piles of refuse already steaming close by. Oh, I felt sick and it wasn’t merely from the imminent destruction of that thin red line that had bravely stood between us and certain death. No, it was something else too and I wasn’t sure what it was.
I pushed my way to the front and gaped out across the blood and gore soaked fields and what I saw terrified me to the core.
A feast!
And it was a feast unlike any in history. Where many thousands of freaks clawed on their hands and knees, or else fronts and backs and devoured, gorged, tore, indulged, satiated, filled and consumed on a never ending supply of human flesh. And where flesh couldn’t be got, they fought each other until they got it. Some ate so viciously that entire lengths of entrails were flung through the air. The blood was so thick that even from this distance we could see the green grass turning red like an ever expanding blotch on the landscape. And when there was no more flesh to be had, they commenced lapping at the blood in the earth, on all fours, baring arses in our direction as they did.
And then, after what seemed like forever, yet not nearly long enough, the dead could find no more on which to feed, at least not on Braid Hills.
Slowly, they began to rise, one by one, ten by ten, hundred by the hundred, thousand by the thousand, to continue their push toward Edinburgh, the now undefended capital city of Scotland.
And what was more…
…It was we who were the only remaining obstacle.
Siege
After witnessing that, nobody could blame me for being eager to unleash my new toy upon the ranks of the dead, or have somebody else do it for me.
They weren’t even in range yet and many homes stood plum in the way, but still, the very knowledge they were even now progressing, slowly in my direction was all it took. I had to do something, to take down as many as possible early on and preferably from a great distance and with each passing second, it required more and more discipline to stop myself from prematurely blowing the thing’s deadly contents over the rooves of the area of Edinburgh known as Oxgangs.
My frustration only grew when a bizarrely out of place and small group of dead were seen to emerge beside a warehouse several streets, buildings, homes and a playground away. Nobody could guess as to why they were so far detached from the rest, other than that perhaps a few had been pushed out in the throng and wandered further west, missing the battle and finding us instead. And it was the most vexing experience, waiting hours for them to stumble out from the cover of a church, into the open, only to find that when they eventually did, I’d made a mistake.
Now, I was no artilleryman, in fact the only men who came close were now crouching in a dank cell, being served slop by an imbecile. But how hard could it be? I was to find out.
We’d already positioned the thing atop the watchtower, which was a feat in itself. Though when I’d earlier triple shotted it, I stupidly neglected to ram the powder charge down first, silly me, so I had a man stick his arm down the barrel to fetch out the three tin cans before I conceded, in my lust to hit the enemy at a distance, to plunge down not one, not two, but three bags of powder. I thrust my sabre down the barrel, poking and jabbing enough holes through the cloth bags to ensure their explosive contents sufficiently saturated the narrow confines. Then I reloaded the canister - All three large tins of it. They were heavy and rattled when shook.
The artillery piece was designed to be manoeuvred quickly by horse, in and out of battle, to be unlimbered at speed before firing from close range, relimbering as the cavalry came for you, and then retreating with haste, only for the process to be repeated when back on safe ground, preferably within range of your own side’s rifle fire. It required the fastest horses and a special kind of soldier to want to be in the horse artillery, the type who enjoyed sticking two fingers up at the enemy from a distance, safe in knowledge you couldn’t be got at. It was the regiment I should have joined myself, had I known about it at the time. But this gun was nothing like the one I’d seen in Ireland. That bugger was a real siege gun, designed to bring down walls. That gun, which I’d seen kill several of our own men in Strabane was different to the gun we were about to unload on the dead now. There was no way anything could go wrong with this.
But unfortunately, whilst reloading, our fugitive group of dead had once more disappeared and the gradient from Braid Hills was so steep, with various inclines, declines and rocky obstacles to figure out how to step around, that the main body of dead were still making the journey come next morning.
I arose, fed on my bounty of freshly slaughtered ham and real chicken eggs and saw that, against my expectations, most of the dead were bypassing us entirely to stagger in the direction of the Old Town, where lesser armed civilians sat waiting in their tenements and good luck to ‘em, I say. It made better sense than attacking us, snug behind our walls and a trio of ditches and spikes and firearms and mean men willing to use them.
But to our fore, just beyond the piles of mud heaped after each ditch and the cobbled streets and the trees that sparsely grew in the verges and the cats that regarded the situation with caution and the homes that may or may not have been occupied, stood a group of dead. There weren’t many, less than a hundred perhaps, that had somehow become detached from the bulk of them, possibly after seeing the other small group that was doubtless still lingering out there somewhere. They loitered out in the open, causing no real harm for they could do nothing in such numbers anyway.
And I fancied having a pop at them.
Or rather, I fancied somebody else having a pop.
And thankfully, there was no shortage of volunteers.
“Ayl do et.” Demanded one man who went by the name of Hendry, a trooper who walked crooked of back and cricked of neck, on account, says he, of some evil spirit in Stirling falling from the sky to crush him.
“Well, if you’re adamant, who am I to say no?” I handed over the fuse, which I’d not yet lit because I wanted ample time to descend the ladder and find a clearing well back. “You will wait until there’s enough of them within trajectory? Let’s not waste it now.”
“Hoow stupid doo yee think aye am?” He grinned his toothless grin and stepped toward the touchhole.
That was my cue. “Well, best of luck, old chap.” I descended the ladders and paced toward the gates, which now offered the only scant view to the outside, obscured by various mounds of earth from the ditches.
I lit a cheroot and watched, waiting, as Hendry blew at the fuse, gave me a thumbs up with the look of a mischievous child trespassing in his father’s liquor cabinet, then touched the light against the wick. He stepped to the side and peered out, anticipating the path of intended fire as the light breeze made pretty swirly patterns with his hair. A group of three Greys had collected close to the tower and now looked up, rubbing their hands with excitement.
The explosion propelled the cannon backwards, smashing through the rail and hurtling through the air. The tower went the other way, to be thrown forwards, shattering the top three or four foot of wall and separating where the collision between the two took place, launching the platform, and Hendry, over the top where they eventually came to land in the second ditch. From somewhere in the near distance, the shattering of uncountable panes of glass made me cringe. The cobblestones we’d placed on the platform rained down for several seconds, smashing in and outside, as well as against the wall and onto the skulls of the three watching Scots Greys. It was saying something about the explosive force that it was the cannon that hit the ground last, and when I say ground, I mean a brace of Scots Greys who happened to be watching, crushing them. Fire had now taken to the remainder of the watchtower and smoke f
rom several homes on the outside rose into the air.
And then it struck me, like I didn’t already know, that despite what everyone thought, my confirmed kill tally was still zero, at least my intentional kills, of the dead that is. And in a single stroke, I’d unintentionally wiped out no fewer than six of my, um, apparent comrades. And it truly amazed me, how even with artillery, I was more harm than use and yet not one person could see it. I was detrimental to the ‘cause,’ a negative return soldier, a dangerous man for all the wrong reasons. I was probably not the fellow you wanted by your side in a fix, nor the good times either. And so, I reasoned, it would probably be for the best if I were to sit out as much of this siege as possible.
The eruption and consequent destruction had been so much that the barracks was a sudden flurry of activity, with men running from every direction, holding their heads, shouting unfathomable obscenities in Scotch and heaven forbid, spilling drams as they went.
Thankfully the after effect had been anticipated by one quick thinking man who rushed forth toward the gaping chasm within our defences with the latrine door slung across his shoulders. The fire pump was wheeled out and a trio of brutes set to the task of extinguishing the flames.
The dead, who’d mostly been ignoring us, now had second thoughts, alerted by the explosion and sniffing easy flesh, now reachable through a partially destroyed wall. I saw several falling into the ditches before the door was thrust upon the gap and the trooper screamed out for someone to fetch a hammer and some nails.
I backed away and praised the good fortune that, up until now, nobody had yet looked and pointed at me whilst screaming out accusations of my complicity, stepping ever further away as I did, my knackers shrinking within my breeches, and hoped that those who were aware were now the same men crushed beneath iron and stone, or else impaled on a four foot spike in a filthy ditch. Regardless, I wasn’t taking any chances and endeavoured to spend the rest of that morning clinging as much to Dolan as possible, offering my services for menial tasks and praising him for any and all acts, big and small.
And by the end of it, still, not one person had approached me with regards to the incident and all this despite nearly every man in the garrison watching me ordering the gun being hauled up there. It was incredible what one could get away with when you had a supposed reputation. But I’d learned my lesson with regards to artillery and not firing cannons from unstable surfaces, even if it had cost the lives of a small proportion of the garrison.
By mid afternoon when I finally emerged from Dolan’s protective bosom, having mucked out cage after stinking cage and after cracking more than a few pigeon eggs and reeking of the same, looking and feeling most sheepish and just as surprised as ever that still not one man had confronted me, I thought best to make an appearance on the courtyard, just so nobody took anything to be amiss and I sought out Major Muir for his view on developments.
“They’re not massed enough yet to be of any major concern and I’m having the devil of a time telling the men to stop taking pot shots at ‘em.” He’d aged several years since watching his countrymen massacred on the nearby hills the day before. “You see that, Captain? There’s one of the blighters in Black Watch uniform, minus intestines and all. And look, there’s another…hurts to watch it. But damn them, and damn what they’ve done to my country. I feel for you, Captain, because you and your English have all this still to come.” He raised his voice toward a nearby idiot shooting over the wall. “What did I tell you? Perhaps you’d like to alert the lot of ‘em that we’re here?” He then looked back to me and shook his head. “As if blowing the place half to bits wasn’t enough…that man Hendry…he may as well have just left a trail of brains to the opened gates…the fool, but mercifully, they’re in two minds and seem content to ignore us whilst they know the Old Town is still crammed full of easier meat, for the time being. But what when all that’s gone, aye, and they head back for us, only this time with even greater numbers.”
In my despair, I tried not to look at the two men who’d been crushed beneath the cannon, their twisted bodies and heads that’d been subsequently caved in by rifle butts to stop them turning. The leadership around here was such that nobody had yet been ordered to clear up Hendry’s mess. Likewise, I averted my eyes from the three who’d been crushed by falling cobbles. At least their heads had been pulped in the initial incident, for what little peace that would bring.
“I see it in your eyes, Captain, the love for your comrades, the sorrow you feel for their most unfortunate, regrettable and untimely departure. I’ve always found accidental deaths to be the hardest to take, made worse when they’re caused by some reckless maniac who should never have been in uniform in the first place. A soldier’s supposed to die fighting on his feet, sword in hand, stout of heart, not by having his body crushed beneath a flying artillery piece and certainly not from being catapulted into a ditch from above. If Valhalla exists, then these poor souls have been denied it.” He gave me a conciliatory glance. “But not us, alas, Captain. Let’s ensure that at least the two of us remain honourable to the last and die whilst facing these rotters eye to eye.”
This was most alarming. Was he giving up hope? And what was all this talk about honour and all that rot? His honour, along with everyone else’s, disappeared about the time he decided to join Dolan.
I glared at the makeshift patch up job, namely the latrine door that covered the monumental damage to the wall. “We’re alright in here, aren’t we? I mean, look,” and I gestured to the cattle that roamed freely about the courtyard, “they’ll not get in, surely, and even if Skinner chooses not to murder anyone else, we could still hope to last many months on good rations,” and all whilst the city fended for itself, and good luck to ‘em, I say.
“Aye, we’re well stocked up on sustenance, whores and ammo, but do you trust this lot, Captain?” He nodded to the burned remains of the former watchtower. “Look what happens when you give cretins free run of the place. Oh, I’ve no doubt you tried your best, Captain, you did a remarkable job with the defences, but with men like this…” he let that trail off and when he spoke again, did so with an infectious gloomy tone, “…it’s just a pity there’s not more like us, you and me, because if there were, the dead could be vanquished from Scotland within weeks, perhaps even less. I heard about what you did in Ireland…tried your best dammit, but there’s only so much one man can be expected to do, no matter how heroic and capable he may be.”
Well, after that, my mood had taken a plunge which, considering my predicament, truly was saying something. And I found that no matter what I did, there was always that feeling within me, a constant anxiety, increased heartbeat, aching of head, dehydration and rotting of my bowels. I fully recognised the symptoms. It was fear, dread, angst and that sense of my impending death. I was trapped within a murdering, treacherous cavalry regiment and wanted by the proper authorities unless I carry out the order to kill every officer within it. And that this was the last remaining safe place in Scotland said much about how doomed I was.
But it wasn’t all bad. Many days went by as a scattering of dead pottered about on the outside, still trying to figure out whether or not to attack whilst the vast majority fell on the Old Town. Our walls and other defences, thank God, proved adequate enough to dissuade them, at least for now, whilst they exhausted all other options and all other feasts.
Inside we carried on with life and we lived, what many assumed to be our final days, in some state of comfort. Spits turned constantly, roasting all manner of carcasses as we ate the best meat from the best animals. Scotch flowed from never ending barrels plundered from Stirling and who knew where else and it was hard not to take a fancy to the sweet nectar. I especially favoured one blend from the Cuillin Hills on the Isle of Skye, but each man had his own personal favourite. The whores continuously swanned about touting for business and naturally I made good use of them, taking to one wench in particular. She was plumper than the rest combined, having once worked in a butchers, and c
ould take a whipping as good as any woman, or man, I’d ever met. And in the evenings, as darkness fell, there were always musicians on hand, playing fiddles, flutes and one idiot bleating up with those infernal pipes that always scared the sheep. I looked on at Skinner, half expecting him to lose it, but he didn’t. Why not announce to the dead that the final inhabitants of the city were here? And if we were stupid enough to proclaim that, then what else were we stupid enough to do? It reminded me of the colour fiasco back in Ireland and how, in moments of likely death, people clung to what most comforted them, whether it was detrimental or not. Throughout, I wondered if this behaviour was normal, or if the rest felt the pinch just like me and were doing anything they could to distract their minds.
But always they were there, on the outside, lingering close by, reminding us that this delicate equilibrium could change at any moment.
Indeed, the stream of dead stumbling in from the forests, the hills and beyond never ceased and for a while now, they’d even been returning from the direction of the Old Town, though still, never in numbers to cause any serious unease.
Typically they were content to stump after elusive crows, cats or rats and only the occasional zombie tried approaching the barracks. The result was always the same. They’d fall into the first ditch from where only their heads would remain visible to us, impaled as they were on a spike, yet still wriggling most horrifically. Though admittedly, not all of them were run through and more often than not they simply tumbled in, unable to get out and would spend their time clawing at the earth in futile efforts at scaling it, whilst occasionally finding a worm to consume.
It was a week into the siege when things slowly began to change.
The numbers of dead staggering in from the Old Town had been increasing alarmingly, to the extent that too many supposed stout troops were beginning to panic. It had proven far too tempting to take pot shots at them from behind the safety of the walls in the belief, perhaps not wrongly, that this would thin their numbers and make it less likely they’d eventually overwhelm us. Unfortunately, no order from our esteemed commander was ever issued prohibiting the men from doing so and nobody noticed either the correlation between rifle shots and the increased presence of the dead.
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 39