Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 17
I’ve considered myself both lucky and unlucky in equal measure. But there’s no doubt that at that moment, the laws of physics were acting in my favour as the length and sheer weight of the pole enabled it to slide neatly away, releasing my hands and myself from certain death.
What Lynch was about to see though was something far worse, for him at least. Because from his point of view, all he knew was that I was free and grinning uncontrollably while the colour was hurtling down toward the giant inferno he’d created. Oh, what I wouldn’t have given to know what was going through his mind as that silly piece of cloth burned like a heretic.
For a moment, I half expected him to jump in after it but the inferno was too large and not even Lynch was that stupid and, unable to save his precious colours, he began twitching, swatting at the air, clasping his face and tugging at his blond locks instead. Finally, as the colours turned to ash, he fell to his knees and wept.
My mind was still recovering from shock when Lynch cast his eye up to where we held a mutual exchange for what seemed like forever, all whilst the dead continued to encroach around him.
One of his fellows was brought to the floor by a gang of four or five, to be savagely mauled whilst Quinn and MacDonald were likewise feasted upon. I could see no others.
The battle was over for Lynch. He’d lost the fort and therefore the mission. His men were dead and I was free, sort of. But worst of all he’d lost the precious colour which meant he, and the rest of us by extension, had lost our honour and therefore everything.
He stood, drew his sword and disappeared as he ran into the fort.
My heart thumped.
He was coming for me.
Although a lesser problem, unbinding myself was simple and required only that I crouched and stepped over the rope before untying it from the front. I was still in the process of doing this whilst simultaneously leaping for the arch and within two giant vaults I was halfway down the first flight of stone spiral steps, my adrenaline, cowardice and automatic flight response, honed on the Rugby fields of Eton, perfectly synchronising as though I was in the military. Indeed, for a moment, I almost believed it.
Naturally, I’d already given much consideration about where to run, despite having only the barest knowledge of the fort’s layout and structure. Outside was out of the question, so I could only head as far down as the fort’s foundations would allow, find some dark hole to squat alongside the spiders and worms and hope to remain, parched and terror-stricken until the dead gave up and Lynch either died from the former or through the sheer rage in which he planned taking out on me.
Round and round I went as the steps spiralled anti-clockwise, which would, in medieval times, have given the defenders the right-handed advantage against attackers. But even with that benefit the thought of taking on Lynch never crossed my mind as I made the third then fourth revolution. And that was when, in my haste to flee, I struck something leathery and lost all footing, sending us both tumbling down the steps, my forward momentum and gravity giving me an advantage against what I now saw to be a ghastly member of the dead straining to reach me with its opened mouth even as we clattered against every stone step on the bumpy ride down. I screamed and clawed at its face, its vile skin peeling away to get stuck beneath my nails. It continued to gnash violently as I sailed it down like a tree limb on a snowy hill and not even a thumb to the eye would make it stop. Finally, we struck the landing and I left the rotter for Lynch, who was even now stomping across the courtyard in my direction. The flames licked around him, the destructive maniac, so that he appeared like the harbinger of all that was bad in this world and when, with a seismic crash of noise and flame, the balustrade collapsed behind him, he didn’t even bother turning around to look.
And he was coming for me.
The steps descended further into the very bowels of the fort, darkness even with sporadic lanterns casting glows against the stones and that I went willingly was evidence enough as to my predicament. I wasted no breaths, bounding three steps at a time, each level leading to other great rooms stacked to the roof with crates and boxes and I must have made four more circles before arriving in what could only be described as an abyss.
Only when I could descend no farther did I charge into the semi-gloom, along a corridor for the far side in what must’ve been deep underground. Wherever I was, a crypt, dungeon or simply hell, the lantern flames danced wildly from being disturbed by my presence and that was when I saw something that almost made me stop, turn around, run back the way I came and take my chances with Lynch…
…Gunpowder!
Because I was in the weapons store. From floor to ceiling were stacked barrel after barrel, their contents clearly marked in big black script. Carts lay ready piled with rifles, carbines, even cannons. There were uniforms, tents and saddles all bound for the regiments of Londonderry and Belfast. But gunpowder! And the Paddies had stacked it all within a cutting distance of various naked flames. I could have dampened them had Lynch not been so close but doing so would have proven ultimately fruitless regardless, considering a great fire was presently raging only a few floors above and the dead, who doubtless even now would be following Lynch down below, had already proven what little difference it made to them whether they were blazing or not.
My boots were loud against the stone so I slowed my movements, remaining flush against the wall, searching for a door to anywhere. It was at the far end where I felt a large round iron handle, which I twisted before thrusting open the heavy oak to reveal a narrow corridor with a single door at the end. Whatever lay beyond it, that place would be the end of the road for old Strappy.
When I closed the door behind me, I was plunged into darkness, the walls bestowing upon me the feeling of claustrophobia, the stones above so low I could reach up and touch the slime. I reached the final door, searched for the handle, found it and pushed it open.
I was not alone.
It lurched forwards and in a flash, I knew that was it.
There are times when even a coward, and a lucky coward at that, knows when his time’s come and for me, that was the moment.
Or so I thought.
It was instinct, raising my arms to shield my face, and I fully expected the mauling to proceed with a rare avarice.
But then there was a loud clang of chain and the monster snarled because it had reached full extension only to be short by an arm’s length.
I clasped my heart and breathed in the warm rot that submerged the entire room, my eyes watering of their own accord as something clenched down below.
I shoved the door closed, already scanning the room, which was lit by a single lantern set down in the corner.
That was when I saw them.
Two babies lay in the corner, as far from the dead man as the room’s limits would allow. They were wrapped in sheets and must have died from starvation, so thin and malnourished, pale and small.
I turned back to the creep, saw the manacle clasped about its ankle, the deep gash in its thigh and knew the agonising choice the father must’ve made in a forlorn effort at saving his children before turning into one of them himself. I wanted to put the ghoul out of its misery, out of respect if nothing else, but something stopped me, and it was more than my cowardice, more than the lack of weaponry within the chamber, which at one point had to have been a cell, for it truly was an abysmal place. For how long had they been down here?
The baby cried.
I whipped around, uncovered them and found they were both alive, perched on the narrow edge between life and death, lying in their own waste, uncomfortable and in agony.
It wasn’t like me at all but all I wanted was take them away from this cell, to look after them, to see them live, for it was no place for two infants and they’d already suffered so much.
The monster strained against its shackles, rattling, jangling and clattering chain against stone. It strained so hard I feared it might wrench its leg off at any minute, the manacle was already biting deep through its muscle. It wanted me and savagely tugged and strained and heaved, its hands clawing for my face, hissing, spitting, its eyes black and evil. It wore a soldier’s uniform, that of the 27th Regiment of Foot from nearby Inniskilling, indicating he’d been one of the original garrison, the red jacket torn but not faded and I guessed that when he was alive he’d been bitten defending the fort, had absconded to this place with his babies and shackled himself to the wall in the hope some hero would happen by, find them alive and rescue them.
Well, they’d have no hero but me instead and I wiped away a tear at the cruelty of the whole rotten thing. What could I do? Even if Lynch wasn’t presently rooting about in search of me, I’d still have the dead to evade. No, all I could do was forget the babies, with their little tufts of red hair, and crouch in the corner like a rat, in the hope that somehow Lynch would fail to discover my whereabouts.
Time seemed to drag on and on and I never adjusted to the smell, nor to the inane snarling of my dead companion, who’d at times taken to lying flat on the cold flags, perhaps in the hope that doing so would offer new angles, make him longer or tempt me out. It didn’t work, of course, no matter how hard it dug its broken nails into the stone before attempting to pull itself along. To its credit though, it was a persistent swine, and neither time, spent energy nor injury could act in any way as dissuasion. Its foot was twisted, the iron bracket now deep into its ankle bone from where shards of white powder had ground away and gathered in a neat little pile on the floor. It was working away at that joint and if Lynch never reached me, the babies’ father soon would.
Did the creature possess enough of its former mind not to harm his children? I doubted it, but neither did I wish to be around to find out.
I heard what sounded like muffled laughter, there was a knock, the door slowly creaked open and then there was the towering figure of Lynch looming in the doorway, his body illuminated eerily by an orange glow from a lantern set down outside. As I squirmed and mewed in the corner, I couldn’t help but think he was a creature from nightmare.
He fixated on the growling idiot first and as my bowels burst, I even dared hope he’d fail to notice me in my squatting place. Without thinking, I pressed as hard as I could against the stone in a vain effort at making myself as small as possible. His eyes flicked once to the babies and then the monster altered trajectory across the floor, half rising onto its legs as it swung round and pounced for my tormentor.
Lynch didn’t even flinch as the chain snapped at full extension and its claws came usefully close to the eyepatch.
I whimpered and tasted salt on my lips as Lynch squinted in my general direction. Could he see me?
He cackled and it was the most appalling sound. “There you are, Strappy, quite the soldier, aren’t you.”
My first idea was to ignore it, pretend it never happened and perhaps he’d think he was seeing things in the fort’s gloomy depths, he was half blind, after all, and what else did I have?
“I can hear you soiling yourself, you cowardly English upstart.”
Of its own accord, my body began to press so hard against the wall that I almost dared hope I’d phase through it; the crazy notions of a coward caught in his last refuge. It almost seemed like a fitting place to die, hiding like a mouse in a pit. “No, no, please don’t hurt me.” Oh, how pitiful I sounded. “Please, why can’t we just forget about all of this?”
He carefully sidestepped the ghoul, pulled out his pistol and placed it on top of a barrel. “After everything you’ve done, there’s only one outcome for you.” I didn’t know what he planned, but having discarded his gun, he now unbuckled his belt, sabre and all before placing it with the rest.
“No, please don’t say that.” My throat was making a strange sound of which I had no control over.
The babies were crying now but Lynch didn’t shrink nor care. “Even at the last, you still won’t stand and face me like a man.” He taunted whilst I squatted. “Are you even a man?” I couldn’t respond, my voice lost through fear and just to distress me further, he removed his eye patch, exposing the horrifying chasm behind before stepping closer, flexing his fingers. “It’s time to feed you to the dead, Strappy.”
I made a sudden jerking movement, forlornly hoping that doing so might dissuade him from harming me, it wouldn’t and he shook his head, completely dismayed at the worm I was.
“I could never understand how you managed to fool so many, so many gallant, noble and honourable men, but no matter, you’ll die regardless and after burning the colour, I’ll make it extra painful, feeding you to that,” he jerked his jaw toward the mess that was straining to get him, “bit by bit.” He tried to catch my arm but I batted it away with a whimper, like a child trying to avoid his father’s birch.
I knew it was worthless but I had to make the attempt anyway and so I threw in my last ditch effort. “It wasn’t me who burned the colour…how could I? You had me tied up, what? It was all Quinn’s doing, I tell you. There…there…there were so many dead, he just went mad and hacked down that pole.”
He’d been about to make a second attempt for my arm, no doubt so he could drag me toward the monster, but he checked his step and scratched his cheek. “You’ve really done it this time, Strapper, slandering the dead, the best of men, of soldiers, an honourable, noble and gallant comrade who survived the Charge with me. Tell me, you miserable dog, why would a man who survived a charge into Russian artillery fire with all his faculties intact, suddenly go mad from atop a building at the sight of a few dead men far below?”
I searched for some reason but could come up with nothing. “Oh, I don’t know, he just did, that’s all I know and…”
“…Enough.” He almost sounded bored and went for me again, this time grabbing ahold of my naked wrist but it was so covered in my own sweat that his hand slipped away. A temporary reprieve if ever there was one and rather than wait for the inevitable, I decided instead on being proactive - By falling to my knees.
I grabbed ahold of his boot and pleaded. “Please Beegan, spare my miserable rotten life, I’m a soldier fighting an army of the dead…I’ll probably die soon enough anyway, and a death far worse than anything you could ever afflict. That’s the fate that awaits me, please won’t you allow me it. All this bother over a silly piece of cloth? Is it really worth more than my life?”
He wrenched his boot free and plunged it in my belly, “you don’t know when to keep your trap shut, do you,” and whilst I gasped for breath, unable to defend myself, he pulled me up by the scruff and commenced choking me against the wall.
Over his shoulder, the beast was going insane, yanking, pulling, tugging, heaving, thrusting and then Lynch moved his head closer to mine, blocking my view behind him, and I truly believe, that as the life was being constricted from me, he wanted my final image to be the dark void within his head.
I was dying, I knew that, and it wasn’t an inner peace I felt, no, far from it, in fact. The babies’ cries would torment me into the afterlife for I feared what Lynch might do to them after I’d gone. Oh, I was sure he wouldn’t have fed them to the dead, or anything equally ghastly, but I could hardly imagine him going out of his way to rescue them either.
Then, finally, even while all I could hear was a constant wailing, with something somewhere breaking, my vision blurred over as my legs gave out.
And then there was a sudden relief in my world as Lynch was yanked violently away, and someone screamed a blood-chilling scream and even the babies silenced and my vision returned and my sense of smell was stronger than ever and I wasn’t dead but Lynch was on the ground with the dead man on top, taking mouthfuls from his throat.
I swallowed and felt a shooting pain through my spine but I needed to leave quickly because the creep’s foot was severed from its leg - It was free.
The door was still open from when Lynch entered and I charged for it…
…and stopped.
The babies!
They’d ceased crying and now gazed at me with big, blue, pleading eyes.
But it was a ridiculous notion. If I stopped to take them, they’d only weigh me down, making me less mobile for my escape out the fort and across open country. I couldn’t take them.
So why hadn’t I left yet?
I took another step toward the door but something made me glance back.
I hesitated…
…and took a single step back toward them.
The ghoul swivelled its head to look at me from where it crouched, its fingers fidgeting around inside Lynch’s ribcage. Something slick and red spilt from its opened mouth as the one-footed freak struggled to push itself up.
I moved closer to the door, then back to the babies.
It was upright now, seemingly in two minds itself while trying to adjust to having one leg shorter than the other. It wouldn’t need long.
And if I didn’t make a move myself, one way or the other, and fast, there’d be no choice left to make.
Run for my life, or save the angels?
In the end, it was a choice I never had to decide upon, but for reasons I hadn’t expected.
There was a boom, followed by a deep rumble and then nothing.
Galway
Very occasionally in one’s life, you wake to nothing but bliss. Gone are the often bad thoughts you sleep on most nights and instead there exists only a deep bliss of which you’d wish never ended.
This was one of those such occasions, where I could feel the crisp cool sheets and the gentle rustling of a fan above my head. I was in a bed somewhere and what’s more, even though it hurt to move my leg, I could wiggle my toes with no problem.
