Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 14
It was so dark I couldn’t see the nose before my face and I wasn’t to know if they’d already left for Garrison, were stood close by or if the dead were even now approaching through the wilderness for breakfast.
From somewhere, a wild animal howled, though it could have been my worst fears traumatising me, or else one of Lynch’s men playing the goat for laughs. At some point, an owl made its telltale hooting and of course, every rustle of the wind, every stir of bracken was embellished into something dreadful approaching silently from behind.
The night seemed to go on and on forever until mercifully, first light began to crack and gradually the seemingly endless rolling moorland of bleakness replaced the black.
I was still here, alive.
The mere act of turning to face the camp was excruciating, that’s how frozen I was. They hadn’t left for Garrison, as it happened, at least not yet, and instead smoke drifted into the sky from the fire they all sat around whilst chewing on what could only be rabbit. One man dropped what had to be tea leaves into a pot and commenced stirring while another held a small mirror to his face as he ran a blade over his chin. Oh, it could have been a regular Sunday school outing, alright, which was the worrying thing, watching life go on so normally whilst I was suffering. Later, the savage who went by the name of MacDonald began ransacking my saddlebag from where he plucked out the cured beef fillets my chef had prepared. He called over his mates, which prompted a rush of scurrying men, and I could visibly see their anger at the perceived injustice of my living. That luxuriant sustenance lasted only a few minutes and then the rest of my saddlebag contents, mostly angry letters I’d not had chance to send home, were strewn across the rocks.
They were in no rush to continue their journey but eventually, they began saddling their mounts and I watched, appalled, as my own horse was tethered to one of the others because apparently, I wouldn’t be needing it. But what did that mean of their plans for me? Would I be left to rot against a post or would I get that firing squad after all, along with a shallow grave, now it was light and I’d had the night to think about my sins.
I wouldn’t have long to find out because they were strolling back down the rocks and across the bogs, heading casually toward me. Lynch, in particular, appeared jovial as he plucked at a blade of heather while sharing a joke with Roarke. He was shaven, his blond cavalry whiskers trimmed to their usual perfection and his eye patch was back in place. “Good morning, Jack, I’m pleased to see you survived the night.” He opened out his arms good-naturedly.
I didn’t hesitate to plead my case. “Listen, Captain, I’ve been thinking, if you let me go now, nobody will ever know about any of this. I won’t tell another breathing soul, you have my word. Why, I’ll even put that word in for you at the Horse Guards and…”
“…Quiet!”
“You’ll be a major by the end of the…”
“…Quiet, you worm.”
“What…what are you going to…”
“I said quiet!” he snapped.
The men untied me and I staggered forward from the post, my stiff muscles like treacle. I was tossed my boots, cavalry jacket and a fresh pair of breeches, which I donned with haste.
But why were they doing this? And what was next?
Lynch stepped closer, placed his arm around my back, assisted me into a space away from eavesdroppers and whispered in my ear, all confidential like. “Now, Jack, I’m sorry about all that business last night…but you know how it is…we all got a little upset at hearing such dreadful truths as to what you confessed and we lost all control…and for that I apologise. Do you accept my apology, Jack?”
This had to be a game but I was in no position to negotiate or play any cards of my own. Not that I had any. And so I threw myself upon his new found respect for me and for the rules of common decency. “Yes!” I coughed, “um, I mean, yes, of course, I accept your apology.”
He smiled and I felt the relief flood through me. Maybe this Lynch fellow wasn’t so bad after all.
“Because I know you’re a man of honour, Jack, just like myself, and with all the bad things I did, why, you’d probably want to demand satisfaction, no?” We were still ambling aimlessly forward and came to a sudden stop as he gave me a hearty pat on the shoulder.
I pretended to give it some thought and even sucked on my bottom lip for effect. “You know, Captain, it’s all ancient history, so why not allow bygones be bygones, what?” I patted his shoulder too and he gave me one of his unsettling grins.
“But Jack, I besmirched you foully, threatened you with a knife, irreparably damaged your reputation, exposed you, threatened you again, struck you several times, insulted your manhood and finally left you exposed for the dead.” He scratched his head and gave me a puzzled expression. “And as a man of honour, Jack, you don’t believe any of this warrants another duel…a rematch, so to speak…settle things once and for all, no?”
I shook my head with as much vigour as my stiff neck would allow. “No! I forgive you of all those things.” And I really did too.
He tutted and called to the men, who’d heard the entire conversation, not that they required further proof of my cowardice. “You hear that boys? The brave Captain Jack Strapper, who threw away his fire, no longer wishes to duel, even after all the mean things I did to him.”
They laughed and then, without a word, Lynch thrust a pistol into my hands before turning away as though it was final.
I was so appalled all I could do was collapse back onto my knees, my agnostic hands clasping in ironic prayer, but I was quickly wrenched back up by two goons.
“Your pistol is loaded, Jack. Now, you’re about to be taught a lesson in bravery.” He nodded to the colour sergeant. “Rourke, you have the kerchief?”
The big grim bugger stepped forth. “Yes, sir.”
They weren’t messing around, they truly weren’t, and I quickly scanned the surroundings, half minded to make an audacious run across the bogs but almost like they’d read my mind, the carbines jerked into place, freezing me to the spot. I demonstrated my disdain by throwing down the pistol most petulantly. “Won’t you see sense man, this is madness. How do you expect to get away with this? Lynch, you’ll not keep eight Paddy cavalry troopers sober forever, no, you’ll be lucky to last beyond the next tavern. One day, someone will blab and then it’ll be your neck stretching at the end of a rope.”
Lynch took one large step forward and screamed into my face. “I fought with these men at the Charge, you filth. I trust them with my life!”
They all nodded along like puppies.
Oh, this was really it. What choice did I have other than to take the gun and attempt to kill the rogue. It was a near impossible task, of course, but there was literally no other way out of it.
But I’d be damned if I’d go along with it without assurances. “And if I kill you, Lynch?”
He gestured with both hands towards the troopers and almost sounded reasonable. “Then you have my word, as an officer and a gentleman, that my men will see you to Galway and set you free.”
It was an empty assurance because I was minutes away from a bullet between the eyes. My chances of defeating and killing Lynch were so close to zero that I felt I’d do better by once again resorting to plan A.
Indeed, there was nothing else for it, so I fell again to my knees and begged, apologised most vigorously for rutting his wife, that she might not be carrying my pup, that it could be anyone’s, tried once more to make him believe that I knew not that she was his and finally, received a boot in the back for my efforts before being manhandled along ten paces of squelching bog as Lynch strutted the same the other way.
I was placed down and it was the sight of a trooper, solemn-faced and totally uncaring, walking so casually over as he cleaned the muck from my pistol when it truly hit, how alone I was and that it was a barren and lonely place to die. He inspected the pan, that it was properly loaded, and returned it without so much as a word or expression to my grasp.
I clutched it tight with a freezing hand and glared at the bastard, not twenty paces away, as tears streamed down my face. Oh God, but there was no way he could miss, but I’d kill him anyway dammit.
Colour Sergeant Rourke raised the rag, which blew wildly in the early morning breeze. “When I drop the kerchief, that is your signal to fire.” He looked once to us both, at least he was doing this properly. “I shall drop the kerchief in a few seconds hence. Are you both read…”
…I raised the pistol and fired…
…hitting the colour sergeant clean in the face.
Feck!
His twin was first to react, “you killed Paddy, you stupid feckin…” he was already coming straight at me, disregarding a large patch of bog that enveloped his shins, his pupils large and apparently red, whilst all I could do was gape aghast from where I palpitated, almost losing all sentience.
“Leave him!” Screamed Lynch, who still held his pistol. I won’t attempt to describe the look he gave me in that moment but all I can say is that I knew I was dead one way or another.
The colour sergeant stalled then stepped closer, torn as he was over whether to obey his officer or murder me on the spot. Miraculously he obeyed, which was hard for him, and changed trajectory toward his friend who lay sprawled, prone and half-headed in the long grass.
Lynch levelled the pistol, teeth grinding, eye pulsing, and his hand absolutely shook as his finger twitched over the trigger.
My hands raised of their own accord. “No, Lynch, please, it wasn’t my fault. I thought he dropped the rag…I…I really did.”
His jaw jerked across to the dead man, the kerchief somehow still tight in his cold lifeless grasp - Nope, there was no getting out of it that way.
“That man was with me at the Charge, you swine.” There was something else there in his eye, something I’d never seen before, something far beyond mere anger and hatred.
“I know, I know,” weren’t they all, “please, don’t do this, it was an accident, I promise.”
The barrel remained pointed at me for what seemed like a lifetime. He wanted me dead, obviously, and my murder was sure to come, but a quick death? No. That was now too good for me and as he uncocked and lowered the pistol with a difficulty I’ll never realise, I knew I was in for a fate far worse.
They’d gagged me within the first twenty minutes, when my screaming became too much to bear and now, having been refused food and water, I felt on the verge of passing out.
It was a short rope that bound my chafing hands to the horse and I needed to be vigilant to dodge its dung that would periodically slap against the track I’d been labouring along for hours, for miles. Sometimes it couldn’t be avoided.
Every now and then the rider would amuse himself by increasing speed suddenly and I’d have to run to keep up, with barely enough room to move my legs and parched by thirst, to save from falling, from being dragged through the overgrowth. Once that happened, when we came across a large patch of nettles, and when I emerged the burns and itches were unbearable.
It was MacDonald who’d volunteered for the task, a rat-faced, almost completely toothless rogue, who took great pleasure from brandishing a small knife whilst looking down at my genitals and licking his lips.
“I’ve been promised an English delicacy for supper, Strappy, and if you’re nice, maybe we can share it over a nice glass of Dublin’s finest,” he made a sinister sucking sound and delved into his haversack, pulling out a full bulb of garlic, “I prefer to sauté it with this, a dab of butter and salt, turn it slowly and allow for an even flavour.” I’d had doubts about his character from the start.
We passed through villages and they stared at me, the ‘deserter’ who was being sent for execution and then the spitting began and the kicking and the scratching and the odd bedpan was chucked over me and so the time soon came when I prayed for the arrival of Garrison and for the horrors that awaited me there, whatever they’d be.
My captors spoke nothing of their plans. Would they torture me, feed me to the dead or did some other cruel fate await? Whatever the outcome, however, it was clear to me that after this, it would be tricky to maintain any normal comradely working relationship with these people.
By counting the milestones, I guessed we were only a few miles out from Garrison, though the sense of impending dread had already been building the last few miles. Lynch felt it too. I could tell by the way his movements became twitchy, his body that usually slouched in the saddle was now rigid and alert.
It was the trees. They were everywhere and showed no sign of abating.
And then in the evening, we approached the fort of Garrison.
The fort stood on the Galway road and now I could see how, in supposed times of peace, it would have been used as a stopping and storage point on the way to Londonderry or Belfast. It was a square, imposing structure, made entirely of grey stone with slits in the walls from where assailants would be met with arrows but now, with the threat of an English invasion gone, much of the front facade had been knocked away, presumably to make it easier for carts laden with goods, and which now presented something akin to the size of HMS Resolute for the dead to simply walk through. Oh, it was a wonder of Paddy thinking alright.
Behind the fort lay the Lough Melvin, a large lake to which we now headed, or to where I was carried before being dumped in head first. I sank and kicked my legs until I surfaced and then quenched my thirst until the point I thought my belly might burst.
They laughed as they dipped their tin pots and drank before pulling me out via the rope that was still bound to my wrists. Then they laughed again as I waded out the shallows, dripping and shivering, the pathetic sight I must have presented.
Back around the perimeter walls I was yanked until we returned to the opening from where we stopped. The ruffians gathered in a cluster, ignoring the nearby scratching and hacking and groaning and thrashing that came eerily from within the fort. They also ignored me whilst they checked belts, kissed charms, loaded carbines, soldier’s business mostly, one or two made the sign of the cross.
Gone were the old threatening looks, Lynch now peered through the huddle to regard me with an empty expression. I was no longer the man who enraged him but something far less, a nothing person, I was already dead.
The one remaining colour sergeant, however, was different. His hatred was more recent, not to mention graphic, and doubtless the memory of witnessing his friend’s head explode still irked him somewhat. He went by the name of Quinn, another ginge with a barrel chest and arms you could launch a ship off and even now he vibrated whilst watching me do nothing more antagonising than stand innocently out of the way. I now had right to fear that man more so than Lynch and hoped I was never left alone in his company.
Lynch drew his sword and issued the order with authority. “Prepare to advance.”
My belly lurched. “Wait, wait…you’re not actually going in there, surely? Let them come out here and pour volleys at them from a distance.”
Two troopers spat into the dirt and Quinn spoke to MacDonald who still held the other end of my rope. “Why don’t yee let me take dis?”
MacDonald glanced over at Lynch, who nodded, and then to my astonishment, three men were delegated to guard the strongbox in Quinn’s stead.
He took the rope and grinned most evilly as he began coiling it around his arm, forcing me closer with every loop, and I was only partially aware of the strange mewing sound emanating from my throat. My life was now in possession of the man who wanted nothing more than to be the one allowed to torture me witless. “I t’ink I’m goin’ to enjoy dis.” The big Mick taunted and then, without warning, my arm was almost jerked from its socket and we were running with reckless haste toward the fort opening.
My muscles were like engine oil on a cold day and even if I’d wanted to keep Quinn’s pace, I couldn’t, and within seconds I was on the ground being hauled along on my arse, the rope about my wrists chafing and burning while the big man, with unseen strength, maintained the same speed. The pain was so much that it was preferential to run with him and so I managed to tumble back to my feet and somehow was able to keep astride.
“Time to kill some dead, yee murdering filt’.”
And then we were in a vast open courtyard, shadowed by the high walls, as the dead approached from passageways, opened doors, stairs and hidden places. In their haste to make a direct route, I saw three at once topple from a balustrade, shattering brittle spines on collision with the flags, only to persist by pulling themselves along by fingertips. Two more stumbled down the steps, which had been made extra steep to deter attackers, causing an avalanche of flailing limbs as they barrelled into those in front. Several more rained down from the barbican and more than one struck plumb some of the leading already departed. By this rate, it could well be Saint Paddy’s day before they arrived, by which time I expected to be fully insensible through funk.
Quinn had positioned us in the courtyard’s centre, the most vulnerable spot, as he poised with blade in one hand, the whimpering Jack Strapper in the other. He wanted this, to kill, to strike the fear of all Ireland into me. I cast a quick glance back to the others, who were merely sauntering along the approach as though they were in Hyde Park, leaving the two of us to deal with the dead. Not that I was of any use and I was of a mind to hide between the big man’s legs but before I could act, I was tugged up by the collar with a snarl of, “on yeer feet boy.”
And then the first demon neared, its face a mask of rot, eyes sunken and dark, skin faded and withered, its body so emaciated it was hard to tell whether it had once been a man or a woman. Either way, Quinn removed its head with one sweep of the blade and there it stopped and hung, its limbs so stiff it didn’t even topple over, at least not until my captor shoved it down with a boot.
More were upon us, each as ghastly as the last, any living they’d recently consumed showing no sign of having improved their complexion or mood. Ordinarily, I’d have screamed, but I was so struck with terror I feared I’d gone mute. I tried to keep low as the blade swung above my head, to chop and hack and thrust at the dead who continued staggering toward us without reason nor strategy. All they saw were two victims, two large meals that they had to have and so they kept coming whilst the maniac Quinn continued slicing them down. Occasionally, the colour sergeant would allow one especially close, pretend to be looking the other way while he held me in situ, just to torment me further, before mercifully hacking it down when I was a half second from death.
