by Ricky Fleet
“This isn’t kindergarten,” Hombre slapped the arm down, “Let’s hear it.”
“Why don’t we use the cars we have just moved to create a funnel? If we push them against the roadside, the ditch will stop them flanking us and we can leave an opening to allow one or two through at a time,” he replied, looking at the glaring faces and wishing he had kept quiet.
“I like it,” Hombre said, nodding, “Two cars to each side, forty-five-degree angle to the drainage ditch.”
Running back to the cars, they manoeuvred them into an impassable barrier, leaving a small passage between the trunks. Satisfied with the blockade, Hombre laid out the plan.
“We’re going to play this smart. As they come through, my men and I will kill them,” he said, turning to Lewis, “I need you and the rest of the nonces to drag the bodies clear so they don’t get in the way.”
“That’s not a nice thing to call someone who’s help you need,” Lewis replied with a pained expression.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hombre said, glowering, “It wasn’t a request. You either do what I tell you, or I call them over and you and the bitches fight them on your own. Then, when you’re all corpses, I’ll finish them off and bury my axe in each of your fucking skulls too. How does that sound?”
Lewis stared at the ground, praying it would open up and swallow him.
“Nothing more to say?” Hombre demanded, staring at the others who all looked away, “Good. Jezz, go and give them a wave.”
Running down the road, he reached the bend and started to wave his arms wildly in the air like he was saying hello to long lost friends.
“I didn’t mean literally,” Hombre sighed, shaking his head as the young man came running back, arms still held aloft.
“Dickhead,” chuckled one of his friends.
Jezz scowled at the insult, “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing, Mr. Mexican Wave,” Hombre said, pushing him to one side, “Everyone ready?” Hombre asked as the fastest undead reached them.
Aiming for the break in the vehicles, the zombies stumbled into the kill zone.
“Sideways, like this,” Hombre grunted, embedding the ice axe into the first head with a swipe. The body fell to the left, straight at the feet of the clearance team who dragged it away.
The plan worked as intended and in minutes a neat pile of corpses was laid to each side. With a sound of retching, the group watched as the slowest zombies approached. Burned during the passage of Kurt and his family by the cars which had been destroyed by the blazing carriage, they stumbled forwards. Blackened skin cracked and fell away, leaving a trail of char and oozing fluids on the tarmac.
“I can’t,” gagged Lewis, holding a hand to his mouth.
“They’re no different to the others,” Hombre growled, readying himself.
Mouths gaping wide, their brittle cheeks split and revealed rows of burned teeth. Hombre dispatched them with less enthusiasm than the earlier dead and the molesters had a difficult time finding anything to hold on to. Trying to take the outstretched arms, the charred crust that was once skin slid cleanly from the flesh below.
“Roll them,” Hombre said, his own stomach churning at the sight.
Once the bodies and cars had been moved, the group washed their gloves and boots as best they could in the water of the ditches. Tucking the soaked mitts in their belts to dry, it left their hands exposed to the winter air. No one complained at the biting chill as it was infinitely preferable to feeling the clotted gore.
“Jesus Christ,” whispered Jezz as they reached the train crossing.
Burned out husks of cars had been thrown clear by the weight of the train and then crushed beneath Winston’s caterpillar tracks. The convicts were unaware of the events and it bore an uncanny resemblance to a scene from a war movie. Body parts lay intermingled with the debris, adding to the overall effect.
“I think we can see what caused the fire,” Hombre said, with a nod to the east.
The charred carriage sat atop the steel bridge like a sentinel from Hell, watching over the flowing water below.
“How did that happen?”
Hombre turned to Jezz and pulled a face, “How the fuck should I know, I ain’t a psychic.”
“Boss, shall we kill those things?” asked Declan, pointing at the mashed and torn zombies which still lived among the devastation.
“Leave them,” Hombre said, striding down the gravel path to the rail compound, “Just keep an eye on the path for any that are still mobile enough to follow.”
Feet crunching on the loose stones, the group walked into the expansive yard with the massive warehouses. Hombre pointed to a closed roller shutter door and one of his men removed a pair of bolt croppers from their bag. With a twang, the two heavy duty padlocks were removed.
“Give it a knock, see if anyone’s home,” ordered Hombre, staring at the slatted steel.
After three heavy blows with his baseball bat, they waited. He hadn’t expected anyone to be inside, especially with the shutter being sealed from the outside, but it never hurt to be cautious. With a metallic clatter, the door was pulled aloft and inside stood what he had been hoping for. A relatively new Scania eight-wheeler crane lorry with a long, flat bed was parked inside the cavernous bay.
“The keys will be in the office. In the top drawer in the desk by the kettle,” Hombre explained.
Two of the men ran off to retrieve them, scanning the darker corners for any hidden threat. Sounds of hammering carried across the yard from the wooden door until the lock gave up the struggle. Darting inside, the men emerged triumphantly holding the keys aloft.
“How the hell did you know they were inside?” Jezz asked with wonder, “I thought you weren’t psychic.”
“I’m not,” Hombre chuckled, “The guy who was on security duty at the time made it to the prison and told me about this place.”
“Ahh,” Jezz replied, feeling foolish for the comment about extra sensory powers.
“Bring the jump starter kit,” Hombre ordered and opened the access door to the battery compartment.
Taking the cables, he attached them to the positive and negative linking bars. Hopping up into the cab, he inserted the key and twisted. With the added power, the engine cranked over immediately and he pressed the throttle enthusiastically. It had been nearly two years since he had driven a truck and he punched the cab roof in excitement. Waving the others out of the way, he shifted into gear and rolled out of the bay. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, he twisted the wheel and drove towards the open sided warehouse. Parking to the side of the stacked timber railway ties, he jumped down and addressed the men.
“Today’s run is simple. I’m going to load six pallets of sleepers, eight of concrete blocks, and I want the rest of you to bring all the bags of sand and cement to the front,” Hombre said, pointing to the massive stacks in the gloomy shadows to the rear.
“But there are hundreds, it’ll take hours,” said Jezz, already feeling the imaginary twinges of a back injury.
“I didn’t realise you had a prior engagement that was so important,” Hombre said, sarcastically.
“I was just thinking we could hurt ourselves trying to shift all that.”
“And that is why I brought slave labour,” Hombre groaned with frustration, “Am I the only one with any fucking brains here?”
“Ok, boss. Sorry.”
Watching them head into the further reaches of the building, Hombre shook his head. These morons would be the death of him, he was sure. Climbing into the crane operation seat, he diverted power to the hydraulics and turned to the prize. It felt good to be working again, even if it was only for a short time. He had always loved the freedom of the road and the changing scenery. His skill with the mechanical controls came from the increasing frequency of French industrial action which crippled traffic flow to Europe. During those periods, he would subcontract to Network Rail and move building materials for them using the same type of vehicle. After loading the thick wood,
he moved to the blocks and expertly placed them on the flat truck bed.
“Isn’t it going to be overloaded with all this stuff?” Jezz remarked, dropping six bags from the sack trolley he had found.
“Massively,” Hombre admitted, “But we’re only going down the road and I’m going to keep it below ten miles an hour.”
“Fair enough.”
Wheeling the lifting aid back inside, the molesters all looked on with envy, brows pouring sweat from their efforts. Jezz grinned as he passed, “Hurry up, you lazy bastards. I’ve done twice as much as you.”
“Boss, you need to see this,” shouted one of his men from a broken section of fence.
Lighting a cigarette, he wandered over and stared down the steep embankment. Below was the crippled Foxhound which had somersaulted down the embankment, bodywork buckled and axle hanging loose.
“Would you look at that,” he remarked, “It looks like Mike’s friends have been through here before us. That would explain the destruction at the station too.”
“Do you want me to have a look around? I can see ammunition down there.”
Hombre scanned the riverbank and saw the trail of belongings that hadn’t been claimed by the wet soil, “That’s a crying shame about that machine gun,” he whispered, seeing the shattered remnants hanging from the upturned turret.
“Boss?”
“Yeah, let’s see what we can find,” Hombre finally answered. Turning back to the yard, he waved Jezz over. “Keep an eye out, we are going down to check for anything useful.”
“You got it,” Jezz agreed, “I’m guessing they’re all dead?” He pointed at the pile of corpses further down the river.
“I’ve never known a zombie to lay down and take a nap,” Hombre laughed and slid down the bank.
“Is it worth picking up the bullets if we don’t have guns capable of firing them?”
“Take everything. When we have the castle, we’ll have their guns too. It can all go into storage until then,” Hombre replied.
“We’re going to attack the castle?”
“At some point, yes. There are old scores to settle in blood,” Hombre growled and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Picking up an overturned ammunition box, he commenced dropping the individual shells within. Hombre knelt at the broken door and peered inside. Large cans of various foods were scattered around, but it was the object hidden behind the driver’s seat which caught his attention. Reaching inside, he twisted it loose and checked it over for damage. The Glock 17 pistol was intact and pressing the release button a full magazine fell into his dirty palm. Concealing it inside his coat, he gathered up the rest of the food and piled it near the slope. It wouldn’t go far but every little helped their situation.
“Any nine-millimetre ammo?”
“Fuck knows,” said the man, holding out the box, “Have a look.”
Mixed together were varying calibres of shells, ranging from 5.56, 7.62, to the precious 9mm. Picking out a small handful, he put them in his breast pocket.
“Good, keep picking them up. I’m taking the food topside.”
Loading the food into his arms, Hombre struggled against the steep gradient and dropped the cans at the top. Two more trips and his feet and calves were aching from the awkward climb.
“Trouble?” he inquired at the sight of four fresh corpses at the gate.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Jezz replied, wiping skull fragments and brain from his bat.
“Good.”
Huge piles of bags had been carefully stacked as instructed and the men grimaced and massaged their aching spines.
“You’re not done yet, my delicate little flowers,” Hombre shouted, “I want as many as possible loaded around the edge of the truck. Five bags of sand for each bag of cement. Make sure you leave a space for the booze as well.”
Their faces dropped, but the earlier lesson had been learned about complaining and with weary sighs they commenced the work. Half an hour later they slumped against the remaining bags, trying to catch their breath and relieve their searing muscles.
“Did we say you could take a break?” Jezz shouted, pulling the exhausted men to their feet.
“Give them fifteen minutes,” Hombre called him off, “Everyone needs to be rested in case we have to fight the dead on the way back.”
Taking a can of pineapple slices, he used the hunting knife to cut through the lid. Sipping carefully at the juice, he passed the tin to Lewis. Certain it was some kind of trick, he just looked back and forth between Hombre and the sweet treat.
“Take your fill before I change my mind,” he growled and lit another cigarette.
“What about us, boss?” Jezz asked with a scowl.
With each greedy slurp, the members of his gang grew angrier. Hombre rounded on them, “They did the hard graft.”
“And I suppose we were stood around doing fuck all?” Jezz spat angrily, squaring up to him.
“Someone’s got their big boy pants on,” Hombre said, eyes narrowing, “Are you feeling froggy then, Jezz?” The disrespect shown all morning by the disobedient youth had exhausted his patience.
It was an incantation which precipitated a few cautious steps backward from the other men. Anyone who had witnessed the violence doled out at the completion of the coming phrase felt sorry for Jezz.
Hombre moved nose to nose, “If so… jump.”
Driven by foolish pride and the laws of prison life, he couldn’t back down. Versed in street fighting he was wary of a headbutt and jumped backwards, jabbing out with his left fist. It connected squarely with Hombre’s mouth and the maniac grinned through bloodied teeth.
“Silly boy,” Hombre chided, rolling his neck. He was in no rush and Jezz took advantage of the pause.
Aiming a hefty kick at his opponent’s groin, his foot connected with a solid thigh as Hombre twisted his lower body to easily deflect it.
“Did you really just try that pussy move?” Hombre asked, dusting off the muddy print from his trouser leg.
Fear was knotting the pit of Jezz’s stomach at the unperturbed response to his assault. “Come on then, you bald headed cunt!” he screamed to bolster his own flagging bravery.
Hombre feinted a left jab and wasn’t surprised when Jezz obligingly dropped his arms to block. A full weight, overhand right was already arcing over the lowered guard and the meaty crack echoed in the yard. The work of a split second hadn’t even given him enough time to flinch away from the blow and he fell to the ground unconscious, cheekbone shattered.
He could have ended the boy there and then, after all it wasn’t the first time he’d killed a man in a fight. Pity stilled his raised boot and he relented, lowering it to the floor. “Pick him up and put him in the cab, we move out in five minutes,” Hombre ordered, spitting blood.
Lewis stepped forward and hefted the snoring body onto his shoulders while another prisoner climbed inside and helped to pull him up into the vehicle. Head lolling, they buckled him in and closed the door.
“Thank you,” whispered Lewis.
“Don’t thank me, you degenerate,” Hombre snarled, grabbing him by the throat, “I just had to hurt one of my best men because of you.”
Throwing him to the ground in disgust, he climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door hard enough to risk breaking the glass. Taking slow, deep breaths to calm the blazing fury, he squeezed the steering wheel and imagined the hatred was flowing from his fingertips. A pointless act of kindness towards a filthy pervert had nearly ended the life of a loyal young man and he was as furious with himself as the unconscious form at his side. Before the apocalypse, he was the first to cut up any molester he could get alone, and now here he was feeding them. Ridiculous.
Anxious faces peered up into the cab waiting for the next order. With one final squeeze on the wheel, he rolled down the window.
“Follow closely. We’ll load the alcohol and then park up in the town centre until we are sure they’ve cleared the area.”
He was answered with nods of understanding and the men spread out around the vehicle. With a final check of the air brake pressure system, he released the parking lever and turned towards the entrance. The depot was going nowhere and the bounty of building materials would be gradually taken over the next few weeks. With the blocks and timber, they would be able to construct longer and larger tunnels to facilitate raids. One of the construction projects that had been strongly resisted by Jason was a tunnel under the River Arun to reach the industrial complexes of Wick Town. Assorted facilities lay across the water, from foundries to sheet metal producers. If they could scavenge from these jewels, the materials on offer would enable them to further secure the safety of the prison. Lengthy discussions about the dangers of underwater tunnelling had stopped the attempt and a bridge had been floated as an alternative solution. How they would ensure the safety of the builders had proven difficult and its construction was delayed indefinitely.
“Here we go,” Hombre called down as they turned onto the main road.
Travelling at a snail’s pace, they passed the scene of the earlier battle and loaded the booty from the pub without incident. After reaching the shops, Hombre stopped the truck and jumped down. Jezz was starting to regain consciousness and he ordered the shunned prisoners to carry him back into the prison through the tunnels. When they were out of sight, he explained the plan to his own men.
“They should’ve pulled them around to the eastern wall by now and it should be a simple job of parking in the builder’s lockup and then running back to the tunnel. When we’re ready, we herd them again and bring enough hands to get it over the wall in one go.”
“Sounds simple enough,” Declan replied, “What’s our job?”
“To keep any stragglers off my ass.”
“You got it, boss.”
Carefully approaching the end of the shops, they stole a glance around the corner across the open land which separated the buildings from the prison.
“Shit,” Hombre whispered at the scene.
Along the walls, men were shouting and waving to attract the zombies before ducking out of sight as another prisoner further down repeated the task. They had assumed that the dumb creatures would be led by their desire to feed, but it wasn’t working. Sam and Braiden had encountered the same behaviour and as soon as the horde started to block each other’s route, they simply peeled away and reformed on the wall.