Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 10
And whilst the room cheered, I had other plans.
The Road To Strabane
It wasn’t to my discredit that I’d spent much of the early hours squatting in the latrine, dreading the thought of leaving the safety of Londonderry’s beautiful walls. Indeed, I was dreading the prospect of leaving the safety of the latrine.
I dipped the cloth into the pail, wrung it out, and it was whilst undergoing the act of cleaning myself when they entered.
“I say, he’s been more uptight than usual, ain’t he?”
“Who, Lynchie?”
“Who else?” There was the sound of piss striking the brass pan, followed by a second stream.
“Aye, I’ve noticed, seemed to start when that new intake of officers arrived.”
“Can’t handle it, is his problem, that there are better soldiers around here now, but whether he likes it or not, he’ll have to get used to being the reg’s second fiddle.”
“Not just second fiddle in the reg either.”
Laughter. “Quiet, Jim, you’re making me piss all over me breeches.”
“True though, ain’t it. People are saying Lynchie can’t get it up, and that she prefers the company of real men, men like Strappy.”
“Careful you don’t let him catch you say that, he’ll ‘ave your guts for garters.”
“Bit late for that, everyone’s already talking about it. All over the bloody garrison, it is, nay, bloody Londonderry too.”
“Aye, well, if the wane comes out sober, no freckles and a headful of black hair, then we’ll know, and the boys’ll never let him live it down.”
“And nor should they. Did you know Sergeant O’Connor’s offering four to one on it being Strappy’s?”
Laughter, “get on…I was only joking, she ain’t even knapped, is she?”
“Let’s just say, I’ve a feeling she won’t be the only sweetheart around here going mysteriously into seclusion.”
“The shame of it.” Laughter. “His wife though…” someone discharged wind. “It’s the bloody turnips, I’ve about had a fill of them. Come to think of it…you ever see Lynchie go out whoring? Cos I ain’t and you can’t tell me he’s one of those Bible types.”
“Bloody hell, you’re right, Jim, he doesn’t. Why do you think that is?”
“Perhaps his eye weren’t the only thing what got hit with shrapnel at the Charge.”
“Don’t talk daft, if his kidney-tickler got shot off, he wouldn’t be able to piss and he’d die of bursting.” The sound of piss finished. “Dwight from fourth company said he heard some French dragoon got his struck by a musket ball in the Chink wars and he could still piss from the stub.”
“Is dat a fact? Wonder what it is then?”
“Maybe he just can’t get it up?”
“Can’t get it up? You not seen his wife? She’s a rare looker, dat one.” Laughter. “Well, Strappy obviously ain’t struggling in that area, that’s for sure.”
“I just had a thought…what if the baby’s hairless?”
“Then if Lynchie’s wife’s son picks up a sword and starts going at the dead while he’s still suckling at her teat, we’ll know. Bravery would be in his blood, that’s for sure. Seems like it’s exactly what we need right now, more Strappers.”
“Sounds like you’re offering your wife up?”
The men left the latrine and I thought I heard, “he’s welcome to her.”
Oh, Lynch, you poor fool, but it was hard to be sympathetic, given he’d brought it all upon himself and had been mean to me ever since my arrival. No, I’d enjoy his humiliation.
Indeed, I was almost tempted to believe my prospects were looking much improved because the two hour trot covering the fifteen miles to Strabane was easier than expected, and although I was wise enough to safely embed myself within the centre of our one hundred and twenty troop column, the safest place by far, I still thought I’d black out upon reaching the infamous spot in the woods from a few days back.
As it was, I needn’t have worried. For all his faults, the colonel knew his business and had placed lookout scouts several hundred yards in advance of the column. Apparently, there were a few dead scattered about the woods but they were solitary and easy for a horseman with sharp blade to put down. I feared the colonel would call on me to take my fair share of scouting duty though, alas, the call never came, which then made me question whether I was being saved for the real danger, if he had no desire to present me with further opportunities to supposedly distinguish myself, or if the explanation was far simpler like, for example, I’d temporarily dropped from the senile old man’s mind.
My reasoning for this was because I’d made an effort not to stand out, had exchanged my troublesome white horse for a regimental standard brown mare, and had found two exceptionally large troopers to strategically place myself between whilst ensuring to keep my head down until reaching the town.
I should have saved my distress for our arrival because what I saw changed everything.
The thick black smoke swirled through the air and had been visible for long before reaching the town picket, a boy of around twelve who chewed on a carrot as he leaned against a stone wall. Beyond him were the pyres, several mounds of them with bodies stacked so high that it took the ones that moved a while to tumble all the way to the ground, from where they’d land atop the charred remnants of those burned in the days prior before igniting and either collapsing where they tried to stand or else, on one occasion, staggering toward the closest townsman, before being put down by stones and bricks hurled at its head. One of the pyres had failed to generate enough heat and instead of turning the bodies to dust, they instead bonded together, in death like perhaps they had in life, whilst relatives, lovers, friends or sympathisers wept, prayed or else stood docile nearby. A new pyre was being prepared, fresh bodies, humans and dead alike, were thrown onto it by grim men wearing kerchiefs about their faces and all around the acrid stench of burned flesh assaulted the sinuses.
There were more corpses dumped in the canal that cut through the town. Most floated faced down in the filthy water but again, there were some that, lacking coordination, thrashed about with limbs yet seemed to make little if any progress toward the bank from where they could assail the few raggedy children who laughed as they threw stones at those who only a short time before, perhaps, had been their folk. I saw one sink from the weight of a tree limb that’d taken three boys to hurl into the water, the creature sank, and then recommenced clawing at the nearby human figures when it reemerged several minutes later.
It was hell and, to my disgust, after leaving behind the safety of Londonderry, Strabane possessed no wall that encompassed the town. Worse, despite evidently suffering from regular assaults, nobody had thought to do so little as dig ditches around the entry points and neither were there gates nor natural defences, save for the river that curled around the town’s northern edge and by the look of the place, that hadn’t prevented the dead from causing havoc by simply going around and stumbling in from the south. Indeed, it looked as though the Irish had chosen, many years before, to build the town in the middle of nowhere, with no logical reasoning behind its positioning or of how they intended to make a defence in case of Romans, Vikings or English. For the most part, western Ireland was too rocky and useless, with the exception of Galway which, being on the coast could at least make a trade from fishing but I was at a loss to explain the existence of Strabane. To me, it seemed far better to abandon the place, what was left of the people too if necessary, than risk ourselves fighting here.
In fact, I was tempted to go to the colonel, to risk insubordination if necessary, by putting forth a firm case for leaving when suddenly, we were mobbed by a large delegation of townspeople. I cursed under my breath because, having now seen us, they would make slipping away all the more inconvenient to explain.
With my riding crop and an expert hand, I took out my frustrations on one approaching group, whipping several of them as they stumbled forth with their rotten offerings of bread, fruit and turnips. They greeted us as heroes come to protect them, but all I saw were useless idiots who should’ve known to make the short walk north behind the impenetrable fortifications of Londonderry and safety. No doubt they had their reasons for remaining in dead man’s land and I pictured them in their shacks, debating over helpings of carrot broth and whisky about how they were born here and so they would die here. The stubborn fools.
I saw one waif throw herself upon the protection of a cavalry trooper and watched again as she was kicked into the dirt. My immediate concern was that if all the town’s women resembled that, I’d likely have to abstain from wenching, which would pain me dearly.
And then there were the animals, that might usually have resided with their owners, but here there were no sheep, cows, pigs, horses or chickens. Only their bones littered the gutters or else were strewn into the canal with every last morsel of meat stripped.
I saw misery out on the rugby fields of Eton and worse, up in the houses where we’d torture the fags for taking too long with our menial tasks. But what I saw in Strabane beat everything and all I wanted was to go home.
An old man, though in truth he might have been little older than I, hobbled out from one of the larger shacks, and what I assumed were his flock of twelve children in tattered rags huddled together at the roadside. The man introduced himself to the colonel as the town chieftain and went by the name of O’Leary. With every word, yellow spittle would dribble down his withered chin, a consequence of missing his two bottom teeth, which I later discovered was the result of a drunken pub brawl. He made an offering of some bottled spirit, possibly whisky, which the colonel took before handing to an aid and dusting off his gloves. The chieftain gestured to the many huts, more than half of which were empty, instructing that we should make ourselves at home, billet in whichever abode we chose and that we should make use of whichever women we fancied.
The column was dismissed and I watched the men scatter like mice in some pathetic attempt at finding the least fouled hovel to occupy, the least poxed woman to rut; take your pick and be happy, because it’s on the house.
Naturally, I had better ideas and headed straight for the alehouse, The Boar’s Belly, which I’d taken good care to clock on the way in. It was one of those stone built Irish establishments that would last another five hundred years and more, with timber frames that never went out of style and a sign above the door that read ‘Feck Off.’ Three fiddlers were busy playing some Mick jig for a line of sots who danced Irish style to the melody, the world outside ignored, and I found it hard not to tap along to the tune myself. And of course, despite the sheer vileness of the town, and of its people, and making an extra consideration for the small matter that they were living through an apocalypse, I wasn’t surprised to find the ale flowing from a never-ending tap. This was Ireland, after all.
The landlord gave me a cautious look and spoke with the same incomprehensible Paddy accent I was finally beginning to partially understand. “Can I be of sorvice?”
“Bed and board.” I slammed down the fiscal, which he snatched without hesitation.
He bit down on the gold half-sovereign, nodded, then reached around his back and squinted as he pushed it up his anus. “This way, sor.”
“That’s Captain Strapper to you.”
“Captain Strapper, of course, sor.”
I made sure to brandish my crop, just so there were no misunderstandings, and followed him up the creaking steps toward the bedroom. “And I’ll want roast beef tonight, you hear me, none of this Paddy turnip rubbish.”
The room was as expected; a bed, wardrobe, set of drawers, basin and a window overlooking the fields south of Strabane. Not exactly how I was accustomed but I doubted even the colonel would be sleeping as well as me this night.
I dismissed the man and was caught by movement through the window. Already, a squad of our cavalry were roaming the fields in search of prey and I saw them bring down their heavy blades across the heads of the dead, splitting apart faces and leaving a trail of corpses in their wake.
The dead were stupid and lacked any comprehension of tactics or strategy. They simply wandered without aim nor cause, seemingly following only where they thought might be sustenance, mostly in the form of human flesh, though I could hardly doubt a creature who partook in such cuisine would turn up his nose at other living things. As long as our boys didn’t get overwhelmed then the dead were no match for a well-trained soldier on horseback carrying a sharp separator. Though from what I saw, the small squad of cavalry were never tested. The dead’s strength lay in their potential numbers and if they ever grouped, and came at once, then…well, I just hoped I wasn’t around to see it.
Right now, the 8th were making a sport of it. And why not? It was easy for them. One trooper removed his helmet and waved it about in the air, allowing his creep to shamble close before removing the head from its shoulders. Another trooper was circling at close quarters, laughing, offering his juicy arm as bait from atop his saddle, the ghoul stumbled, and then a large hoof squished its face into the mud.
I saw none that spurted or gushed blood, confirming their circulation had long ceased to function after anywhere between six and thirteen years lying in the cold earth. One could easily tell which dead had been longer confined to the dirt, for they lacked flesh and everything else that once made them human, more closely resembling masses of disorganised bones held together only by thin strips of tendon, cartilage and clothing, the rest long ago taken by the worms.
They came from the hillside trees that surrounded large parts of the town’s perimeter, to emerge solo, or else in small groups of raggedy formations that could never hope to trouble disciplined men. The troopers demonstrated this control by approaching the tree lines and then swerving away, refusing to enter where it was thought they grouped in larger numbers. We followed orders, they did not, and hopefully that would make the difference.
Despite the ongoing drama in and around Strabane, I feared my, for the moment, comrades, would soon begin to notice and then question my absence. I had to at least make a token showing, ensure as many men as possible saw me at the scene, stamping my feet, waving my sword and growling angry words of defiance, before I could scurry back to the safety of the alehouse in time for the real assault that was expected late in the evening. But first, out of necessity, I required several visits to the pan and even had to purge myself before donning my shako and wobbling back outside.
It was Major Murphy who saw me first. “Ah, hello there Jack, terrible place, terrible business, but we must help these poor people.” The man was carrying a shovel, had dirtied his breeches and was sweating like a pig in a foundry as though he, a supposed senior officer, was meant to be pitching in with the type of menial work better suited to fags or the lower troops. “The colonel’s on a mission to secure the place…that bloody toff from London, you see…has to be seen to be winning, even if we ain’t.”
“You sure sound full of confidence.”
He conceded with a nod. “We can’t all be blessed with your abilities, Jack. We’re digging ditches across the southern approach, which is where that O’Leary chap says they always appear and the colonel’s put every available man to it…except for officers of course, but I volunteered…got me out of scouting for the dead, you see.” This Murphy fellow was a man after my own heart, but after having gone up in my estimation over the last minute, marginally, he was still standing there holding a shovel. “You fancy pitching in with the graft?” He finally offered, as though I’d be all for it.
I hitched up the collar of my officer’s coat. “I really would, Major, but it would rather demean this former Eton boy.”
“Oh, of course, yes, I do apologise.”
I studied the man, his stupid round spectacles that sank into his facial fat, short black hair parted at the side and stumpy limbs, proof the army’s standards were falling. Oh, how I wished he’d been one of my Eton fags, I’d have worn out the stretch rack from overuse. “In fact, I’d take that a step further, Major, and say it’s demeaning for any officer to be seen by his men pitching in with manual labour, what? We’re supposed to be dignified, you see, a cut above, to be looked up to. We’re meant to be their betters, which is why we don’t drink or eat with them, we don’t share quarters, we don’t fraternise in any way, our women are better, supposedly, they play football while we play cricket but most importantly of all, we’re not to be seen covered in filth, soaking wet from our own sweat after having done their bloody dirty work for them.”
By this point Murphy had long been looking down at the stones, “desperate times…and all that Jack,” but he’d certainly remember seeing me, if nobody else did.
Although I’d not be joining in with the slog, I did potter in the general direction of the scene, just to give my squad a morale boost. The men couldn’t help grinning when they saw me.
Lieutenant Sheehan was watching over them and greeted me with a nod. “They get nightly attacks, from what the chieftain says, and by all accounts, tonight’ll be no different.”
That confirmation of my earlier suspicions was the kind of intelligence I could make use of. “I don’t suppose they’ll be much deterred by our boys hacking them down so easily in the fields?” I glanced over to the mounting body count, a small pyre that was likely to grow.
“Doubt it.”
Most of the men had stripped to the waist, each one without exception revealing an identical, and unidentifiable, tattoo over the heart, as they dug the long ditches across the southern perimeter. There had to be at least a hundred cavalrymen put to the task, along with whatever able-bodied town’s people remained, evidence to the urgency the colonel placed on the task but still, I doubted it would be enough to finish the job in a single day and it worried me greatly.
“It’s the damned rocks.” Sheehan kicked at one of them. “They’re everywhere and it ain’t by half slowing the job down.”
The soil and rocks were being heaped to make a steeper fortification for the dead to chew on and while I fully expected them to be stupid enough to attack there, if numbers were great enough, they could simply clamber over each other, or else, if it wasn’t finished, walk around.
