What in the blazes was he talking about?
And then I recalled how, after the gauntlet, he’d muttered something about getting me the help I needed. Well, try all you want, you poor fool, I’d take it all the same.
But what was to be our imminent death instead stretched on and on, Norris was that good a warrior and had taken to covering all sides at once as I tried my hardest to let him. I lost count of how many times he saved my life, and Jimmy’s as well, for what that was worth. But Jimmy too had his uses and provided a comfortable buffer between myself and the multitudes. Put it this way, I wasn’t leaving this life before he did. Indeed, the challenge remained in crouching between the pair of them, without Norris realising what I was up to. Oh, it wasn’t easy and required a constant shifting about, keeping Jimmy the right length away, even as he drooled, pulling him in by the suspenders before prodding him away again with sabre tip on the small of the back, all whilst the only blood on the sword in my hand had come from my own face.
It’s a funny thing this ‘honour’ though, which prompts supposedly intelligent men to put others before themselves. Was it possible to reach old age possessing such ‘qualities?’ Norris was the kind of man who could have fought his way out of the barracks and all the way to London and his wife had he so chosen, but instead deemed the lives of a simpleton and a traitor more important than his own, and all because he made a promise I hadn’t remembered anyway and was in no position to make him ‘honour’ either.
There was no way of knowing for how long it lasted as the dead hobbled at us from all angles, sometimes thick, other times less so, but always menacing whether men, women or children, wearing soldiers’ uniforms, labourers’ scruffs, kilts or nothing at all. The piles of corpses were heaped so high that the shorter zombies clawed and growled and heaved and went apoplectic with outrage at not possessing the stature to lever themselves over it. Their taller counterparts struggled less so, simply stepping over the obstacle only to be expertly hacked down by Norris’ separator. I almost dared hope the wall would become so high, so thick and formidable that we could remain within indefinitely, at least until the time arrived when Norris and I would have to resort to devouring Jimmy ourselves. It was all nonsense, of course, but when faced with death at a constant beat for hours and hours you think strange things, or perhaps it was just my mind, planning far ahead as it most often did, searching for ever new ways to self-preserve.
But then something happened, because the many vertically challenged zombies, with no hope of clambering over their fallen fellows, had gathered in large enough numbers to push right through that stinking wall of rot and now we, and by we I mean Norris, was faced with a sudden rush as a cascade of dead fell inwards from up high and with them came seven or eight upright ones, each as vile as the last and now stumping their way inside our cocoon.
Norris saw the threat immediately and moved to check it and I was left so terrified and flat footed by the unexpected speed of the change that I was unable to move with my saviour and was thus left exposed. My misery was compounded because Norris had left his rear unguarded as one ghoul, not particularly small or large, but still with those hideous grey eyes that were common to them all, now toppled down the slope, landing smoothly on its side.
The creature took a moment to adjust to its new position, my bowels loosening like rarely before, and then hauled itself to its feet, regaining equilibrium, all whilst I was so stunned I could do nothing but remain where I trembled, blade falling from my paralysed hand to clatter on the blood sodden cobbles. Oh, I knew my body and how it reacted when faced with danger and had faith I’d act decisively somehow, but what else could I do as it put one foot in front of the other, taking its first steps toward me, that angry glare piercing through my soul.
It was the vilest of brutes too, with yellow Scotch stained teeth, filthy lank hair matted over its head and possessed hardly a neck to speak of. When alive, it would’ve been at the bottommost reaches of the human pecking order and now it hastened and forced a gruesome noise from the back of its throat, reached out with its arms, opened its mouth as saliva dripped down its naked chest to land on shit stained long johns.
And then, at the final moment of my life, I reacted as I knew I would, as the zombie committed itself to my flesh, I twisted as gracefully as a ballerina, as deftly as a cat, to the side, in the hope for leverage, reaching out for the one shape that loomed in my periphery, rooting all my weight in my feet to provide a stable base and tensing all my muscles, utilising every last morsel of strength and energy I possessed, grabbing ahold of what I reckoned to be Jimmy and threw him into the path of the oncoming zombie.
Norris screamed.
He screamed as the blood pulsed from his neck and with a clash, his bloody sword fell to the ground as I shrank back, carved my hands through my wet hair, stomach clenching, inconsolable for the loss, but euphoric I’d survived, for a few more measly seconds at least. I double then triple checked it was really him and not the incapable one I’d intended - It was Norris. And it was his oesophagus that was even now being casually drawn from him.
And as greater numbers of dead fell on Norris’ remains, I knew two things. One; that no sane man would have done a damned thing different to what I just had, placing his own safety and well being before that of a stranger - That fact alone was enough to console me and mitigate any guilt I may have felt. And two, that without that stranger, my longevity amongst the living had been cut short.
There was one thing though I’d failed to reckon on. Jimmy saw it all, of course, and now turned on me for “murdering Norris,” although I wouldn’t have put it quite like that and not merely because, like the rest of us, Norris was a dead man anyway. Is it murder if I pull a man between myself and an out of control carriage to ensure he gets harmed instead of I? I didn’t think so, especially considering that should he avoid the first, the next would get him anyway - What difference did it make?
But try telling any of this to Jimmy as he said bad things to me, words I wouldn’t have thought he’d known, picked up the bloody, battered and damaged sword of the fallen warrior and came at me like we weren’t presently surrounded by zombies intent on killing us anyway.
Thankfully, the boy, who could’ve been thrice my age, for all I could tell, was slow and clumsy and disarming him would prove no tricky task, even for me.
The dead were still piled on Norris as I grabbed ahold of Jimmy’s wrist and tussled for the blade, still dripping with all kinds of sticky red goo.
“Don’t pretend you’d have done any different, now relinquish that weapon before you do yourself a mischief.” I squeezed his wrist and sank my fingers deep into the nerves.
“You a bad man…you kill the captain.” His elbow was in my mouth by this point, forcing my head back.
I dug further in and shook his arm, made strong from carrying buckets, the blood from his uniform, possibly Skinner’s but who could tell, smearing all over me, covering me, the stench, the slipperiness as the dead remembered us and rose presently to a slow action.
“Let go, I need it to protect us.” I could barely utter the words with that colossal joint thrust in my mouth and aye, it had now reached the stage where I probably would have to use the oddment in anger.
I wrenched it free and whipped around to assess my rear when Jimmy, the idiot, accosted me once more, this time from behind, though there was no telling what he was attempting, his arms reaching around my front to connect in some bizarre hold.
There was little I could do, as the horde staggered agonisingly close, the blade grasped aloft in my right hand, poised to strike, my left arm held outwards level to the ground, pushing back against the maniac who’d kill us both lest he forgive and forget, my feet digging into the wet ground, almost slipping as I used my legs to thrust him back.
“Get off, you’ll kill us both, you fool.”
“You a bad man. You kill the captain.”
And then the first two zombies had arrived, mouths wide, teeth sharp,
eyes angry and from somewhere horses’ hooves clipped and the zombie reached for me and a horse neighed and two zombie heads were removed, but not by my stroke and then all around the dead were falling, to join their already fallen kin that surrounded us.
The 11th!
Never before was I so happy to see colours fluttering in the breeze and then we were surrounded by those big beautiful beasts, hundreds of them and, just as quickly as they’d arrived, what dead remained in view were slaughtered.
I was so stunned, Jimmy too, that we held our respective poses, just in case it weren’t true. And then there was Murphy and Sheehan and Fitzgibbon and dozens more of ‘em, all gaping down at me, bloody blade raised aloft, left arm shielding the garrison whipping boy, too stupid to protect himself, the gallant Strappy doing it for him, a ring of dead…no, a wall of dead enveloping us, the last two survivors of Redford Barracks…no, of Edinburgh, maybe even all Scotland, still alive and fighting the enemy, even to the point of near collapse, and all whilst the blood still dripped from my countenance.
“Oh, thank God.” I could’ve cried but was too exhausted even for that as a brace of troopers leapt from their horses to catch my weary body at the very moment I swooned.
For a long moment nobody spoke, or could speak, only scrutinising the scene, the grim evidence before them, their expressions a picture of shock, disbelief and something else. Even the horses were silent as more jostled forth for a peek at the curious spectacle, at what they’d never believe lest they saw it with their own two peepers.
Murphy came to life, swung with a thud from his heavily burdened mount and wobbled toward me, already crying, his spectacles a blurry mist. “My dear Jack, oh, my boy, you will be the death of me yet. No, no, let me take him.” He ordered the stout trooper away and I felt his hand clenching around my waist as he took my weight. “I should’ve known better than order you to remain home to recuperate…there’s just no keeping you out of the wars, is there, dear Jack.”
After another minute I heard the mutterings between the men.
“It’s Strappy again.”
“Are you really that shocked?”
“He’s so gallant.”
“The poor warrior…looks like he’s been through hell, and all for Britannia.”
It went on and on and once it had all sank in, there was barely a man who was surprised that it was I who was the last man left standing and even if the 11th had never arrived, old Strappy could have handled it all anyway, and probably the rest of Scotland too.
Fitzgibbon remained expressionless but ordered a stiff dram be brought over for me regardless. I watched with interest, the men huddling about me, almost fighting each other to be nearer, all whilst the colonel remained perched on his horse, taking in the unbelievable scene. He was a wily old bastard and I feared he’d see something the rest of the fools couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Oh, I wasn’t sure what exactly. I had the scar, the sweat, the blood, the sword damaged beyond all recognition and the fainting had been genuine enough. On the other hand, there were hundreds of animals still roaming the barracks and at some point I assumed questions would be asked, but luckily Sheehan was here and would vouch for me, that I had orders from Horse Guards and had stayed behind, selflessly, for the sake of Britannia. Even if the snoopers within the castle had watched the whole thing, which I doubted, but even if they had, I was here officially anyway, with orders to blend in. All the officers were dead, which meant I’d carried out my duty and nobody could say otherwise. There were no remains of Dolan, or of anybody else, and when Sheehan enquired as to the manner of his assassination, saying I’d shot and fed him to the dead was easy. Oh, there was the large matter of zombie Skinner trapped somewhere in the corridors below the barracks, but I let some other overly keen soldier deal with that, and with a bullet hole right through the neck, there was never any doubting I’d carried out my duty and more besides, considering the size of the man and with the ghastly stories of Skinner soon leaking out, my fame only grew in proportion for having dealt the blow.
Luckily the only living witness to the truth was an out and out imbecile and I rested easy, knowing nobody would take him seriously anyway, no matter how many times he repeated the line that I was a “bad man.” Even now he followed Sheehan around like a puppy, offering gruel or to feed, water and groom his horse.
Eventually, Sheehan relented, paid him a threepenny piece and as Jimmy disappeared in the direction of the stables, I took the opportunity to speak with the man.
“Some people are never grateful.” He chided to Jimmy’s back. “Save his life and as a thank you, you’re accused of some of the most heinous things I’ve ever heard…the bloody disgrace of it. I’ll not repeat them back to you, Jack, though I know you’d take them all with good grace and dignity, as always.”
I sighed, touched my wound and winced. “Go easy on the poor lad…had the good sense thrashed out of him, on the many occasion, and he’s seen some horrendous things about here lately.”
He gave me a look of concern. “As I’m sure you have too, Jack, and you can be sure Horse Guards and the entire nation and beyond will know all about them once I’ve written my report.”
“Well, I um, I really didn’t do all that much.” I rubbed the back of my neck and kicked a pebble across the ground, watching as it struck the flag post in the distance - A lucky shot if ever there was.
He laughed and shook his head. “I’ve come to expect nothing less from you but sometimes your modesty shocks even me. Every damned time you save the bloody Empire, you always diminish your own role in it. Well, that tack won’t work with me, let me tell you. No, no, don’t interrupt, because if it weren’t for you, God only knows what state Britannia would be in right now.
That’s the secret to it - Be modest in the role you supposedly played and allow the others to fill in the blanks.
“I just wish there was more I could have done. I feel bad the infantry never made it, not to mention the rest of them…Scotland, that is.”
He shook his head and spoke in an almost reprimanding tone. “Now you just listen here, Jack, you’ve done more than enough, more than anybody else could have expected, more than any other man would be even half capable of doing, for all I can tell, and it does no good berating yourself, of all people, for failing to go beyond that of which is physically possible for man, and it’s just like you to feel this way. We only have the one of you, Jack, to our eternal disappointment, but even you can only be in the one place at a time. Well, let me tell you this, because I have contacts in government, in the service, Horse Guards as well as other places, you see, and it’s about damned bloody time the Queen and the entire bloody nation recognised you properly.”
I didn’t know it at the time, but thanks to Sheehan’s report and the public demanding so, I was to be given a monumental country house, a gift from a grateful country. Not since John Churchill, the 1st Duke of Marlborough after his victory at the Battle of Blenheim in 1704 had such an award been made and, as I was to discover upon its completion, Strapper Palace made Blenheim Palace look like a Paddy shack in comparison with its grounds, streams, ponds, lakes, river, bridges, pavilions, cricket pitch, outhouses, farm, hedge maze, water features, exotic animals, pillars, columns, balconies, hundreds of rooms which I never did get to view all of, staircases, ballrooms, theatre, a village, oh I could go on and there were all sorts of full time staff, all paid for out of the public purse and all situated in the nice safe Oxfordshire countryside. It was a nice edition to my expanding portfolio, aye.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, because in 1859 I still had several more nights at the Redford Barracks whilst the 11th recuperated after the long four hundred mile journey north, battling the dead along the way, before they were to return south to England and our barracks at Rochester.
Oh it was a hard time, those nights, ordered to remain in bed recuperating lest I be court martialed and, as it turned out, the regiment, as so often happens on long marches, had acquired a fair number of handsome
maidens on the journey. They’d desired protection and perhaps the prospect of a husband in dashing uniform and where better to find that than within a cavalry regiment. And if the 11th had been surprised to find me, sword in hand, fighting to the death, last man standing at the culmination of their march, then for the wenches, it was even more of a delight to discover they were sharing a barracks with the famous Captain Jack Strapper.
At some points it was even absurd, how the next would swagger into my room before the door from the previous had even closed and several nights running I could hear them arguing, screaming and slapping at each other in the hall outside. I had an easy solution and invited them all in to enjoy and experience Strappy together.
There were moments I feared resentment from the other men, but if they felt it, nobody dared show it and who could blame ‘em? For I had reputation and it wasn’t like anyone would be silly enough to risk duelling with me. But I did wonder how many betrothed I took during that wonderful time.
Did I feel bad about it? Not really. It was they who risked what they had for the chance at something better, even if my mind was always on someone else.
But that time wasn’t all fun and games, no sir. Because always there was the gruel boy, tripping about, carrying his slop and moaning to any sore ears who’d listen that the captain was a “bad man…he a bad man.”
I lost count of the number of times I had to give him a hearty clap on the back just to shut him up whilst laughing along and humouring it all, giving him the kind of courtesy he deserved. Before long the men grew tired of him too and after Sheehan demanded he show some respect or else be thrashed to within an inch of his rotten life, because he was speaking to Captain Jack Strapper, and threatened to have him carried outside the barracks and left to his own care amongst the dead, he soon shut up alright.
Still, I longed for the opportunity of passing him one day in a quiet corridor whilst carrying my crop, bigad, but one’s luck only ever went so far.
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 45