‘Hmm,’ Blackmore agreed.
The last thing Major Carden wanted on the base was a bunch of new arrivals kicking off even more than normal.
‘Then of course, there’s the pregnant woman,’ said the Doctor, checking his notes again for her name. ‘Alice. Simply finding her has made the mission worthwhile and she seems in remarkably good health, if a little underweight but that shouldn’t pose any real hindrance.’
‘I take it you’ve informed Dr Farrell of her condition?’ Sergeant Blackmore enquired.
‘Yes, I managed to get the message out before we lost our satellite window,’ Dr Morris replied, ‘I’ll have his agreement first thing to proceed, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Good.’
***
In the small cupboard next to her office, Sister Josephine sat quietly on a stool, listening to the two men talking through the small grate set high in the connecting wall. What she heard disturbed her and confirmed she had been right not to trust the Sergeant. Not needing to hear any more, Sister Josephine left the two men talking and silently slipped out of the cupboard. With no one else in the corridor to see her, she began walking quickly towards the staircase that would lead to the attic and to Liz’s council.
After their extensive questioning that day, Lanherne had been abuzz with pent up excitement but Sister Josephine had sensed it was tinged with a justifiable apprehension for what was to come. They had all grown so used to their life safe behind the Convent walls that for an opportunity of salvation to arise suddenly was more than a little unsettling. Walking through the dark, echoing corridors, Sister Josephine didn’t need to see to know when each turn was coming up. This had been her home for most of her adult life and each brick, crack and doorway had burned itself into her subconscious. One way or another, she knew she would not be leaving the Convent with the Sergeant and his men. Lanherne would be her home until the day she died. She just hoped that day would not come with the rising of the sun tomorrow.
Shaking herself from her thoughts, she realised she had reached the door that led to the attic. Placing her hand on the handle, she went to push it open. Nothing happened. She tried again, to no avail. Apparently, it was wedged tight.
‘Can I help you, Sister?’ came a voice from the darkness.
Startled, Sister Josephine turned abruptly round to face a young soldier appearing from the darkness.
‘My, you scared me, young man,’ she said, afraid he would be suspicious.
Once he was close enough, she could tell he was the soldier that had recognised Lars and Penny.
‘It’s Steven, isn’t it? You went to school with Penny,’ she continued, hoping to distract him from the door, ‘Quite miraculous indeed, you finding not one but two faces hidden away from the world after all these years.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, smiling, ‘I certainly wasn’t expecting it.’
As he said this, his smile seemed to falter, as if he somehow regretted finding them at all.
‘Here, let me,’ he said, changing the subject to ease in front of Sister Josephine before she could protest.
Holding on to the door handle, he levelled a sharp kick to the base of the door.
‘There you go,’ he said, regret still haunting his smile.
‘Oh, thank you,’ Sister Josephine said, placing herself slightly in the doorway to block his view, ‘Err… you see, we have a cat who’s due to have her kittens and she sometimes likes to wander around up here.’
‘Do you need any help looking for her, Sister?’ Steven asked.
‘No, no, I’m quite alright. I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.’ she replied, hoping he wouldn’t try to follow her up into the attic.
‘Oh, okay Sister,’ he said, staring intently at Sister Josephine face, as if he was trying to read something hidden there.
Supressing a sigh of relief, Sister Josephine watched as Steven Blackmore, finally nodded, turned and began to walk down the hall. He had barely gone a few steps when he turned back to face her.
‘I’d tell that cat to stay hidden if I were you, especially with kittens due,’ he said calmly. ‘Oh, and best that she stays away from the window too, because someone might see her… Goodnight, Sister Josephine.’
‘Goodnight,’ she replied, the words barely a whisper.
Shocked and more than a little puzzled by what he was plainly implying, Sister Josephine watched Steven finally disappear back into the shadows down the corridor. He had obviously seen Liz from outside and he had just warned her to keep her hidden. Perhaps those that left with the soldiers tomorrow would find an ally in Steven if things turned sour, she certainly hoped so.
‘Dear God, what have we let into our home?’ Sister Josephine thought to herself, as she quietly ascended the staircase to fill Liz in on the day’s events.
DAY 3
Patrick could feel the rise and fall of Helen’s breathing as she lay sleeping next to him. Slowly, he opened his eyes, taking a minute to register where he was. The sad dusty room was hidden in shadow, except for a single beam of light breaking through a chink in the drawn curtains. As he watched, a million dust motes caught in an unfelt air current danced in the beam of light, flowing upwards only to merrily swirl and fall again. Patrick thought the falling snow must have turned to sleet or rain during the night because he could hear the tell-tale drips coming from near the window. Savouring the warmth of his bed for a few moments longer before he would have to brace the chill of the room, Patrick listened to the rhythmic sound of the dripping of water. Laying there listening, he realised it wasn’t coming from the window at all but the dark shadowy corner by an old antique looking wardrobe. Surprised that the roof on the old but well-built building had sprung a leak, he shifted his weight up onto one elbow to discern the extent of the damage. What he saw made his breath catch in is throat and his heart hammer wildly in his chest. There, standing motionless, hidden in the deep shadows was the figure of a man.
‘Who’s there?’ He asked, his hand slipping silently from the covers to the club he had placed by the bedside table. ‘What do you want?’
If the figure heard him, it gave no indication. No sound escaped the shadows that enveloped him, save for the ‘drip, drip, drip’ of water hitting the dusty wooden floorboards. Patrick’s hand slowly reached the spot where his club should have been and found it gone. In fear for Helen and Jasmine, Patrick, inch by inch, began to move one of his feet out from under the covers and down onto the floor. The moment his foot came into contact, his sock became drenched, obviously the water had been leaking through for some time and had formed a large puddle.
‘Look, mate, we don’t want any trouble,’ said Patrick, holding up his empty palms. ‘I’m just going to get out of the bed, nice and slow. No reason for anyone to get jumpy.’
Swinging his other foot slowly from the bed, so he was now in a sitting position, Patrick noticed the beam of light that moments ago had been a source of beauty, now did nothing but highlight a horror. There, where the shaft of light hit the floorboards, he could see a spreading pool of glistening red.
‘Blood!’ the word shouted in Patrick’s mind.
As soon as the word demanded recognition, he noticed the heavy coppery smell that filled the room.
‘Helen!’ He urgently whispered, as he rocked her sleeping body, his eyes never leaving the still form in the corner.
As he said her name, the figure took a stumbling step forwards, the sound of its boots scraping across the blood covered floor making Patrick spring to his feet. Standing unarmed in a dimly lit room, in wet socks on a blood covered floor, was not the best way to take on an unknown attacker, but Patrick had little choice if he was to protect Helen and Jasmine.
‘I said I don’t want any trouble,’ he repeated, as the man took another painfully slow step towards him.
With a step, the man was struck by the thin beam of light coming through the curtains. With a gasp of shock, Patrick took an involuntary step backwards, knocking into the bedside table
behind him. There, standing just as he had last seen him, burnt, torn and bloody, his organs ripped from his body by the wooden post that still pierced his chest, was Ryan. Patrick shook his head in disbelief. This could not be happening, he told himself. This abomination had been left safe in its grave. It had no right being here. Stunned, Patrick could do nothing but watch the slow, steady trickle of blood running along the post. As its ragged tip the blood collected and then fell in heavy drops to the floor. Ryan’s corpse made a strangled gurgling sound as if his ruined body was trying to form unspoken words. At this, Patrick tore his eyes up to Ryan’s charred face only to be met with the milky film covered eyes of the Dead. Looking into the eyes of this man who he had called his friend, Patrick could see nothing but an endless hunger and pain.
‘Oh, Ryan,’ Patrick managed to whisper, regret and guilt filling the two simple words.
Ryan stared back at Patrick, his brow creasing in concentration as his damaged brain desperately sought to access the memory of speech. Then his blood splattered lips opened a fraction, the dark viscous spittle that gummed them together, stretching. There was movement in Ryan’s throat, as air was sucked into long dead lungs, now clogged with earth. His mouth, now opening wider to allow a dry rasping flow of air over his withered vocal cords, began to shape a word.
‘D..A..M..S …N,’ the animated corpse slurred, drawing out each sound painfully. ‘D.D.D….AAAMS…NNN,’ it repeated.
Then in a motion full of purpose, Ryan nodded his blistered and charred head in the direction of Patrick’s left. Suddenly realising what word the Dead man was trying to form, Patrick reluctantly turned to look at his daughter. In that fraction of a second, Patrick’s world ended. There, in a bloody mess of torn limbs and savaged flesh, were the remains of what had been Jasmine. Patrick screamed. Anger, horror, grief and despair filled him in equal measures and all demanded their share of his pain.
Suddenly, he was awake, a tangle of blankets wrapped about him but still the screaming filled the room.
‘Jesus!’ Helen cried, jumping from the bed and running to the window.
‘My God, Patrick!’ She said, turning back to face him. ‘The horses!’
With the adrenalin still pumping through him, Patrick leapt from the bed, as Helen pulled open the sash window frantically.
‘It’s a pack!’ She cried, turning to Patrick, the fear clear to see in her eyes.
If the feral dogs killed their horses, they would be effectively stranded in the building and travelling across a countryside riddled with hungry animated corpses by foot would be suicide.
Below them, the three tethered hoses were under attack from at least a dozen dogs. Just like a pack of wolves, the dogs had fallen back onto the hunting tactics hidden deep in their genetic memory to take down the horses. As some of the dogs circled to dart in to snap and worry the beast’s legs, the larger pack members went in for the kill. The horse from Lanherne reared up, its hooves kicking wildly, braying in pure panic. One of their horses, Flo, was already down, her blood flowing freely while two large Alsatians savaged her flanks and a third animal tore at the flesh of her belly. It was Flo, who in her death throws, was giving out the almost painfully human screams. Watching, stunned by the terrible scene before them, Patrick was relieved when with a yelp, an arrow appeared in one of the Alsatian’s side, knocking it loose from Flo’s back. Out the corner of his eye, he could see Imran leaning out of the adjacent bedroom window, his bow already poised to let fly another arrow. Leon had also joined in the defence of the horses, one of his knives flashing through the air, to land deep in the neck of a large mongrel that had its jaws clamped onto Shadow’s neck. With a sharp whine, the canine fell to the ground, lifeless. More arrows and knives soon rained down upon the pack members, taking them out one by one. Eventually, knowing they were beaten, the remaining stragglers, turned tail and fled, leaving their dying pack brothers to bleed out onto the compacted earth behind them.
‘You’re not serious?’ Gabe asked, watching Phil retrieve a large knife and an axe from one of the carts.
‘Meat is meat, Gabe,’ he replied. ‘We can’t afford to just leave it. Pity we haven’t the room for the offal but the muscle will make good eating in a stew.’
When it was clear what was left of the pack had finally gone, the group descended the rope ladder to tend to Delilah and Shadow’s wounds. Phil knew Flo had been more than an animal of burden to Gabe but he was damned if he was going to leave the valuable meat to rot when there would be stomachs grateful for the flesh back at Lanherne.
‘He’s right,’ Added Patrick, placing his hand on the boys shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Gabe, but we just can’t waste the meat.’
‘It’s not meat… it’s Flo,’ Gabe said quietly, giving her muzzle one final stroke of farewell before he stood and hobbled over to sit in the cart.
‘Right, I’ll do this as quickly as I can,’ Phil said, laying out an old tarpaulin to wrap the meat in. ‘J-Man, Sarah, can you collect the larger of the dog’s carcasses? We’ll just tie them to the roof for now. I’ll skin and butcher then when we get back.’
‘Will do,’ said Sarah, sharply turning her back on Phil as he began to cut into the muscle of Flo’s right flank.
Within half an hour, Phil was stripped to waist and he was washing the last of the horse’s blood from his arms in a bucket of freezing cold water. There was a surprising amount of blood in a horse and even now, the gore was still spreading in an increasing pool from what was left of Flo’s body, colouring the frozen earth a deep red.
‘Is he going to be alright?’ Phil asked Helen, nodding over at Gabe who sat with a sullen face staring at the corpse of Flo.
‘I know it seems stupid to feel remorse for one dead horse when we’ve just seen so many of our friends killed,’ she began, ‘but for Gabe, Flo was a friend too.’
‘And friends are hard to come by these days,’ Phil said, standing to dry the last pink tinged water from his hands. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yeah, something like that,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders.
‘So, we ready for the off soon?’ Patrick interrupted, walking up to Phil and Helen, Jasmine held tightly in his arms.
‘Yep,’ Phil replied, pulling his jumper down over his bulky muscular torso. ‘Barring any more incidents, in about five hours we’ll be back at Lanherne and you’ll have a safe new home.’
‘Safe?’ Patrick thought to himself, looking down at Jasmine sleeping in his arms and wondering if anywhere would ever be truly safe again.
***
‘It’s crazy, man,’ Matt said to Steve, as they sat cleaning their weapons, ‘to meet up after all these years, in the middle of nowhere, what are the odds? She’s quite easy on the eye and nice arse too.’
‘Yeah,’ Steve replied, only half listening to his friend.
Daydreaming as they worked, Penny was his sole distraction. Even now, as he automatically jammed the cleaning cloth through one of the chambers of his gun, he could picture the shape of her neck, the soft curve of her jaw, the way she tucked a stray bang of hair delicately behind her ear with her fingers. All these minute details that seemed to have shouted out to him in their brief reacquaintance last night, came back to him now. He remembered how his hands had itched to reach for her, to feel her skin under his fingertips and to feel her body next to his but he knew it was nothing but a hopeless fantasy. He knew that any thoughts of being with Penny were nothing but pipe dreams. Especially not after what he would be part of later that morning, she would hate him for it.
‘Damn!’ he said, throwing the cloth to the floor.
He knew anything he could have possibly had with Penny had already been trampled by this mission. It was over before it had begun. She would never forgive him and after today, would only look at him with hate and resentment. He had seen it time and time again. Most did not look back fondly upon their rescue. To them, this was not a benevolent act by their army heroes but rather, for many, a time when they were forced
to leave those un-chosen behind.
‘I don’t think I can do this anymore, Matt,’ Steven quietly whispered, looking down at the snow dusted ground so only his friend could hear him. ‘What’s the point in surrounding ourselves with people who hate us? What sort of brave new world does Carden think he’s going to be able to build on that foundation. It’s doomed from the get-go… nobody wants to play this crazy game.’
Steven looked up, meeting his friends gaze.
‘I know I don’t, not anymore,’ he continued, shaking his head, his words barely a whisper.
‘You know what you’re risking, Stevie-boy?’ Matt asked, calmly returning his attention to his weapon, as if Steven hadn’t just spoken of desertion, ‘You can’t save her, you know that, don’t you. She’s fit, healthy and is of an age to make nice fat happy babies. She’ll be on the list to be rescued. They’ll not let her or you just slip away.’
‘I know,’ Steven replied, looking up at the small attic window. He had a plan forming and whoever was hiding up there, might just be his unaccounted for ace in the hole.
‘And what about you, Matt,’ said Steve, trying to gauge what was going on in his friends mind. ‘Do you think what we’re doing is right?’
Matt put his rifle aside and with a sigh, looked over to Steve.
‘I agree with you, something has definitely gotten turned around at the base… something bad. What was supposed to be a place of hope that we’d beat this thing, has turned on the very people it set out to save,’ he began, quickly scanning the other members of the squadron to see if any were within earshot, ‘but I can’t go with you, you know that.’
Steve felt the hope that he wouldn’t have to do this alone, deflate within him. He and Matt had been part of this right from the beginning and to contemplate going it alone was terrifying.
‘Shit, if it was just me, then I’d be with you like a shot. You know that, don’t you?’ Matt added, ‘but I’ve got Karen to think about. She’s all I’ve got left of my family. I can’t just leave her back on the base, you do understand.’
Five More Days With The Dead (Lanherne Chronicles Book 2) Page 12