Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 15
The corpses began mounting until I almost dared feel safe, because they began tripping on their fellows, or else slipping on detritus, and the killing became ever easier.
Quinn’s comrades hung back in the entrance and watched with a rare glee as my chilled skin turned white, only the occasional beast diverting towards them for a quick dispatch.
Then, finally, there were no more and I was wrenched from my stupor by Lynch’s slow handclaps. “Well done, Captain, you’ve outdone yourself.” He glanced around at Quinn’s handiwork with approval. “Maybe I really did underestimate you and your soldiering abilities.”
I threw up on the spot and Quinn ploughed his boot into my stomach for the trouble.
And whilst I wretched on the ground, amongst all the blood and guts, all I could do was hope they’d had a bellyful of teaching me about being a soldier, about being a man, that they’d have mercy. I should’ve known better.
“Make a fire.” Lynch barked the order, then another. “Find some rabbit, or even better, a deer. And you two, search the place for a shovel. I don’t want to stare at this mess any longer than I have to.”
In the meantime, they had fun and games with me, childish stuff mostly, swinging me around by the rope, gaining momentum and then letting go so that I went hurtling across the gut sodden floor. I was swung by the ankles like a pendulum from the balustrade and then later someone came up with the idea of dangling a still living corpse in my trajectory so that it would reach out hungrily whenever I crossed. Finally, and to much chuckling, my face was scrubbed inside the gaping stomach cavity of a dead ghoul.
Oh, it had gone far beyond being wrongly tarred as brave and taking credit for heroics I played no part in. It had gone far beyond romping with a slut at the wake. No, it had now entered the territory of revenge for accidentally shooting a beloved comrade, and since such things were all so new to me, there was no knowing how it might escalate.
They returned with logs, a shovel and a deer slung over a big man’s shoulder. And whilst they sat around a bright courtyard fire and cooked as though they were on a boys’ camping trip, I was forced to dig a large hole in the earth.
It was the first time in my life I’d dug anything, and didn’t much take to it personally, especially considering I was frequently poked with sticks and subjected to all manner of obscene abuse. MacDonald came back to taunt me with his knife and at one point the colour sergeant, who I’d stupidly taken as a man of honour, urinated over me whilst I stood helpless in the pit.
“Digging your own grave are we, Strappy boy?” He goaded and there was no way of telling whether or not it was in jest. Personally, I believed I had more cruelties coming before they finally decided to dispatch me permanently, though the grim realisation was always there - I was digging my own grave.
And the coward I was put me in two minds as to whether my death would be a mercy or not. I had no wish to die, but neither did I want to be tortured. Indignity, humiliation and taunts I could happily endure into perpetuity, but not the rest, not physical pain.
Though one can learn much when one remains quiet and listens. For instance, I discovered Lynch’s Christian name was Beegan, of all things, which provided me with the only light-hearted moment since leaving Strabane. What was odd though was that many of the men referred to him by it, which could only have demonstrated the time they must have been comrades, how close they were, as well as the loyalty they had to one another. Though I knew the day a trooper called me Jack would be the day I’d wear out my crop, bigod. I just hoped I’d get the chance.
By now my belly ached from hunger and, chancing my luck and the fact I suspected they wanted to keep me alive to prolong the abuse, I clambered from the hole and approached the eight of them, interrupting some Paddy yarn Quinn was amusing them with. The chatter and laughter came to a slow stop and then fifteen eyes were glaring back, bones of tender meat in their hands temporarily forgotten.
I licked my lips and the strong smell produced a saliva reflex in my mouth. “Please, I must have sustenance.”
They laughed and looked to Lynch for a response.
“You’re hungry? Oh, I do apologise.” He almost sounded sympathetic and leaned toward the spit before ripping the balls off the carcass and holding out his hand. “Here you are, Strappy, have some nutritious venison.”
I backed away shaking my head. “Um, it doesn’t matter.”
Quinn stood and made the come here gesture with a finger. “Now, now, don’t yee know dat when yeer commanding officer issues an order, yee obey it.”
I stamped my boot petulantly. “I’m not eating that. And quite honestly I’ve had just about enough of all this mistreatment and silly degradation. I’m an English gentleman, by Jove, born into the upper classes of Britannia, and would therefore demand treatment befitting of my station.” My words, although containing defiance, lacked the force and conviction to accompany them. It was the way they were all looking at me, see?
The rope, which for the last two hours had been attached to a hook on the wall, was retrieved by Quinn who now slowly, with calculation, pulled me toward him.
I tried to resist but it was like opposing a force of nature and my boots ground against the floor, bringing up small clouds of dust, whilst he barely seemed to be trying. Within seconds he had a large hand clamped around my scruff.
“Open wide, Strappy boy.” The ogre pressed his thumb and finger hard into my cheeks, forcing my jaw open for Lynch to stuff the nut inside my mouth. It tanged at once and then he squeezed the end of my nose, forcing me to quickly chew and swallow lest I die of suffocation.
I’d tasted worse, to be fair, I was in Ireland, after all, but it was hardly what I was accustomed to, even here, and doubtless it would only be regurgitated the next time one of them chose to kick me in the belly.
I swallowed and took the other without so much as putting up a token resistance. What was the point in fighting it anyway? They wanted me to eat deer testicle so one way or another, I’d eat deer testicle.
The evening marginally improved after that. All I had to do was drag thirty corpses into the hole, cover them and then succumb to spending another night tied to a post. This time the flagpole on the fort roof.
The Horde
It was the juddering that roused me from where I stood, lashed to the pole, and although I couldn’t see them, I could hear the muttering in Mick somewhere to my rear. The string chafed against my naked back and I glanced up to see the colour slowly rising as it attempted to flutter with what little breeze there was.
“What are you doing?” I wheezed but received no response.
Now it was morning, I could see for miles, at least what was straight in front, and the view was most alarming. Because we were surrounded by dense forestry, which could only mean the dead were potentially close, possibly even surrounding us. The thirty dispatched by Quinn the prior evening would hardly be the last and I assumed they’d remained at the fort for the simple reason they had nowhere else to go. Now we were here the next flock had cause to come, and they might do so at any moment.
“I don’t understand,” I croaked, “you were meant to secure the fort…”
It was Lynch who emerged, looking neat as usual, his whiskers trimmed and blond hair combed to the side. “We have secured the fort. What are you getting at?”
I craned my neck up, to where the rag was now at full mast. “But the colour? They’ll see it. Why tempt fate?”
He shook his head and stepped up to my face. “I’m not surprised you don’t understand, you lowly worm. We’re here with our colour, we’ve retaken the fort and now we want to see her fly in all her glory.”
I was wrong to expect even the slightest possibility of him making a sensible decision regarding that tattered piece of cloth. Not that I cared about him, his men, the fort and certainly not the bloody colour - But I did care about one thing.
“Listen to me, Lynch…they will see it. And then they will come. Thirty may not be a problem for a head case with a blade and his boys to back him up, but you don’t know how many are lurking out there.” I’d have pointed out yonder if only my hands weren’t bound so obscenely tight around the pole which creaked worryingly with every movement of my body.
He grabbed ahold of my jaw and squeezed. “That beautiful colour was with us at the Charge. She even took shrapnel, just like the rest of us. That colour is not for the dead, it’s for us, for morale. The dead don’t care about the colour. All they want is your insides, Strappy, and I intend on giving it them. And if I hear you, some jumped up grifter from England, talking about my beloved colour one more time, I won’t save you for the dead, I’ll fillet you myself.” He pointed upwards and I saw a hint of adoration in his eye, “and I will gladly throw away my life, as well as the lives of all my men before my colour is removed from that mast.”
“Here, here.” Growled a voice from my blind side and then Quinn emerged, evidently having been there all along. Of course, being the so-called colour sergeant, it was his job to babysit the shabby scrap of rag, which seemed about all he was good for. He produced a knife and I instinctively shrieked but then he began scraping it over the whiskers I was so proud of, and which the ladies so loved, cutting away my beautiful hair. “Cavalry whiskers is for cavalrymen, boy.”
Lynch meanwhile, having left me to be sheared by his underling, surveyed the distant trees with an eyeglass before barking down orders to gather wood for a large fire that was to be put in front of the opened wall. What their plans were and why now, having secured the fort, they weren’t loading supplies and making preparations for the trip back north to Strabane, I couldn’t say, and damned if they’d tell me anyway. Fort Garrison was supposedly brimming with goods and I’d yet to hear Lynch issue an order to secure or account for any of it. No, these imbeciles were content to linger around as long as possible, to kill more of the dead and invent new and elaborate ways of punishing me.
Lynch patted the ogre on the back and then disappeared, leaving me alone with Quinn, the one thing I’d wanted to avoid.
He sat on the rampart, a low broken wall that extended barely above the man’s knees, and I wondered how much stone, over the years, had been pilfered by the nearby Irish to build their shacks and huts, stripping the so-called fort of its defensive capabilities and historical value. Indeed, a cursory glance of the landscape revealed several barns built from stone, each with a curious resemblance in colour, size and cut to that of the fort.
But for the meantime, Quinn was content to sit quietly whilst smoking a cheroot as he tapped his foot and occasionally glanced upwards to admire his charge.
What more was there to do? I considered engaging the man in conversation but what would be the outcome besides a cigar burn to the forehead?
It was cold atop the tower, shirtless as I was, and every few minutes a gust of wind would cut me with a fresh nip and the flag would flutter loudly and the mast would shudder and creak as though it was made of rusty old Paddy iron.
All across my field of vision the forest stretched far beyond the horizon and there were occasions, although I couldn’t be certain, but every now and then the forest floor would flicker, which drew my attention, but then it was gone and later, just when I’d thought I imagined it, I’d see the same thing again, only in a different position. As the next hour past my concern only grew because I saw flashes and abnormally large movements of trees that couldn’t be the effect of wind. Maybe I was going mad, finally, up here and delirious, and so I dismissed all notion the forest was moving, or at the very least, that the wind was playing a devil with so many trees, and my mind.
I’d have shut my eyes and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t, not with that man so close and it was those moments I’d waffle about whatever was on my mind; Old Tubs, Clayton, Mrs Clayton, my darned whiskers and that I just wanted to go home. The hours past and once or twice Quinn even laughed at my gibbering.
And then in a rare moment of daring do, I spoke directly to the big man. “Colour Sergeant, are you here to guard me or the colour?”
He stood from his perch and stepped closer. “Yee sure have a high ‘pinion of yeeself. Der’s no getting away for yee…I’m here for da colour.”
I had to be careful not to irritate this unpredictable scoundrel and so I spoke with as much respect as I could. “Tell me, please, Colour Sergeant…what will you do if the dead arrive?”
“What’s it to you?” Without his shako, the man had a head of thick ginger hair, curly and unmanageable along with cavalry whiskers like most others in the 8th.
“Nothing…I was curious, that’s all. You see, without me, there’s only eight of you, or seven if your job is to stay up here when the horde arrives. I’ve seen you fight, Colour Sergeant, and if I may be so bold, you’re an old hand with a sword, but that’s what confuses me, see?”
Intrigued, and possibly somewhat flattered, he scratched at his cumbersome nob and said, simply, “what?”
“If your comrades are severely outnumbered, how will they cope without you?” It sounded genuine enough and for a moment, I almost thought he was thinking upon it.
He didn’t answer my question directly, instead, his eyes lost focus and his response came as though he was reciting a line that’d been drummed over and over into his skull. “My job is to protect da colour.”
Which, in sorts, gave me my answer, as well as demonstrated the sheer madness of these people and the entire military system I’d been tricked into joining. I decided to finish the conversation by saying something unexpected, just to see how he’d react. “Well, if anyone can protect the colour, it’s you, Colour Sergeant.”
He narrowed his eyes and frowned before returning to sit on the edge to stare out at whatever his friends were plotting below.
Midday came and went and so did most of the afternoon and it was during a particularly strong gust of wind, not especially cold, but chilling nonetheless when I heard it.
At first, it was so faint there was no knowing whether it was the wind playing songs on the walls or the breeze rustling leaves in the trees but the sound was continuous and indeed changed its rhythm like the wind.
Next came the vibration, which could hardly be mistaken for the weather. It wasn’t heavy but light and constant, which I only noticed because I’d been stood on the same spot for hours. Quinn on the other hand, who sat or plodded aimlessly about the ramparts remained unaware.
Finally, I saw something definite when the trees in the middle distance twitched or shuddered, one or two of the smaller ones even bending from the weight of the masses. There were areas less densely green that absolutely seemed to shift, torsos, necks and even heads clearly distinguishable.
They were coming.
And now even Quinn saw it and shouted down to his comrades. “Dead approaching, fifteen, twenty minutes at most.” Something in incomprehensible Mick was returned, to which Quinn responded, “hundreds!”
I considered that to be a weak estimate. “Quinn, you’ve seen them, they’re coming, now listen to me…”
He whipped around,“listen to yee? I t’ink not, laddy.”
I stamped my foot, which was about all I could do. “No, listen…it’s the bloody colour, you damned fool. You have to take it down.”
He twitched and scratched at his head, unsure he’d heard my words and their accompanying insolence. “Excuse me? Could yee repeat dat please?”
“Oh, you heard me. Take it down! Every bloody dead man from here to Cork can see that thing, confound it, now remove it and that’s an order.” It was a futile effort, I knew that much, but I’d be damned before I did nothing to save my life.
He stepped closer and gave me an almost comical look. “What was dat, sir? You’re issuing orders now, are yee? You’d like me to remove the regiment’s honour, would yee?”
I wasn’t having this, no sir. “No, no, now you listen to me, Colour Sergeant, because despite all the unpleasantness that’s been going on around here, I still happen to be a fully paid-up member of the officer class, a captain, if I recall rightly, sanctioned and accredited by the Horse Guards, no less, and if you refuse to obey my orders then I’ll see to it that you’re broken back to private, bigad, and if there’s a flogging, I’ll volunteer to brandish the cat myself…got a bit of a knack for it, you see.” It might have sounded more convincing had I not been tied to a flagpole in only my breeches.
Not surprisingly, he wasn’t impressed. “I’d sooner take a runnin’ leap from dis roof, so I would, yee understand me, boy?”
What was the use? Not a one of them had any more sense than the dead who were even now on their way, loosening jaws in preparation for the coming bounty. The real stupid thing was that, whatever the rest of them were doing below, their activities now intensified with the clanging and clattering becoming more regular, the shouting and swearing more urgent, they could quite easily negate the lot simply by removing the colour. It was much wasted effort, aye.
I became ever more anxious while the lug to my fore could barely be roused to the imminent threat. No, for all he cared, he could’ve been on the golf course, awaiting his turn on a Sunday morning.
Then we were greeted by the next sign of impending doom, which came with absolutely no warning and was like nothing I’d ever seen.
Out from the trees, suddenly, charged hundreds and hundreds of deer.
