Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 3
My spirits were high and my purse heavy as the coach arrived at the docks in Liverpool, a city if there ever was one, built on Paddy immigration. But as the driver pulled away, leaving me alone in this filthy and unfamiliar pit in the northernmost reaches of our country, I was struck by two things.
Firstly, given I was to be spending untold years living around the Irish and doing Irish things, whatever that entailed, I realised I’d never actually met one. This was doubly vexing when considering the nature of the family business.
Second and most worrying of all, given that Liverpool was supposedly the most advanced port system in the world, which happened to face Ireland, there were no ships actually from there. East India Company ships, British, Spanish, American, even French ships meandered in and out of the channels. But no Irish? Did they not trade? Did they not by the hundred thousand offload their burdensome countrymen upon the English?
Encountering what could only be my very first Mick, who stood in a group of several short, threadbare, ginger haired men with curly whiskers of his ilk, I strained my ears to overhear the conversation between swigs from a bottle of whisky they passed around between them.
“Why do yee suppose dat is?”
“Dunno, dey says da boats won’t be comin’ in.”
“Da boats won’t be comin’ in? What does yee means, da boats won’t be comin’ in?”
“I mean dey says da boats won’t be comin’ in. An’ no boats means no work and no work means no drink.”
“No boats?” At this point, the man swooned from early morning inebriation. “But I was expecting me cousins? All twelve of dem.”
Struggling to comprehend barely a single word of their fast flowing faux English, I grabbed my luggage and stamped toward the ticket office where, between funny looks from the inspector, I managed to ascertain there were no problems with boats departing for Ireland and that mine was expected to leave on time. I recalled the gibberish I’d overheard earlier and almost made further enquiries but then thought better of it, whilst hoping the Paddies where I was heading weren’t quite so stupid through drink.
The boat pulled in at Belfast and upon disembarkation, I immediately felt my superiority amongst the locals. As a general rule, I’m tall and was the envy of the boys in the Eton changing rooms. At six foot, I loom over all my peers and most of my elders. But here in Belfast, as I examined their malnourished forms and bony faces, they, in turn, probed me, giving admiring glances as to the cut of my cloth, the women in particular, and nor were they afraid to let me know it through overt eye contact and the occasional extroverted grin.
There was certainly a predominance of ginger, which made me recall the young fag Hulbert at Eton, the chap Clayton and I took such pleasure from stretching. It was all in the way he screamed, see, but unlike some, at least the fellow had stayed true to the honour code, kept away from Old Tubs, and had taken it like a man. After that, it had indeed been noted how he’d become one of the best fast bowlers in the county, on account of the improved trajectory of his throwing arm, and when he was selected to play for Eton, he only had us to thank and would not have taken any of it back.
Though it wasn’t merely the hair by which one could tell a John Bull from a Paddy. Where we eschewed small talk, other forms of conversation and most types of physical contact, save for the occasional pub brawl, the Irish lazed about in the streets actually talking to one another and seemed, for the most part, to enjoy the company of their companions.
Naturally, I didn’t speak to any of them, and damned if I could understand them anyway, but I did wonder why so many were loafing about at the docks with bags packed considering there were no boats leaving.
Or more specifically, boats were leaving, only, passengers weren’t being permitted to board and there was a force of bobbies brandishing truncheons in an effort at keeping order. A few people screamed abuse but I didn’t have time to wait around to watch the escalation, fun as it would have been.
I boarded a carriage bound for Londonderry and was stunned by the low price. My allowance would enable me to live well here but regardless, I bartered the man down further given I suspected he tried swindling me and in the cloth that I donned, along with my imposing figure, he put up small argument.
After securing my baggage, I settled in for the seventy-mile ride along bumpy cobbles, broken roads and mud paths passing through the occasional rundown village with what few cows, sheep and chickens there were occupying the same living space as their keepers.
The weary villagers gaped with toothless expressions as we clattered through on our northwestern path, the further we progressed, the more desolate and depressing it got until entire settlements seemed, to the cursory glance, to have been abandoned. This was a problem because I was hungry and hoped to find a tavern for some ale and sustenance, alas, none were forthcoming. If the country continued like this, my earlier fears of encountering anti-British rabble-rousers would prove unfounded, for I was beginning to get the impression that almost the entirety of the country had emigrated to England or elsewhere.
Not once throughout the drive did we pass any coaches heading in the same direction but the closer we came to Londonderry, the more we saw rattling the other way, filled to the seams with screaming children, the horses sweating and drained and the passengers, through the window, exchanging more of those funny toothless looks of which I was fast becoming accustomed. At one point I stuck my head out the window, only for my driver to shout something back in unintelligible Mick.
We approached the city next morning, having spent a freezing cold night inside the coach cabin atop a hill with a drunken Irish driver twitching nervously at every noise from outside. He tried explaining his problem, or so I assumed, but damned if I could understand.
The city walls stood wide, tall and imposing and filled me with fuzzy feelings knowing that should there be the customary sectarian violence between Catholics and Protestants, or either of those against the English, I’d be safe and secure behind them and I made sure to spot one especially formidable bastion far away from the city’s main gates which, should it be necessary, I could bolt towards before cowering behind my men. After all, what was the point in being a captain, if you didn’t use your company for protection?
Londonderry, supposedly the fourth largest city in Ireland could have been anything but. To my eyes, it looked similar to Belfast except it lacked the early morning hustle and bustle you’d expect of a populated city. Businesses lay empty, dingy and cramped rows of back to back terracing that should’ve housed many, didn’t, save for the usual idlers who leaned against walls waiting for something and nothing. The main thoroughfares were practically empty of all life and the desolation I’d experienced in the villages on the drive west had followed through into the city. In parts, it looked like nature was attempting to reclaim what had once belonged to it. Grass, weeds, plants and even small trees had sprung from the dirt roads where birds made their nests. In truth, Londonderry almost resembled a ghost town, stripped of all but a last remaining token population.
It was a relief to finally arrive at the barracks, which was saying something, and the coach rumbled through the gates and along the cobbled approach as I beheld the garrison that would be my place of employment.
In comparison, the barracks were lively with small knots of cavalrymen gathering to smoke, trotting horses around for exercise, rushing about for some such reason and at the brick walls by the north side, one squad of cavalry were assembling in preparation for a drill and I watched, fascinated yet terrified as they charged across the courtyard, sabres held aloft to plunge them into padded posts at the far end.
I’d have fun here - Just so long as no war broke out.
With the essentials of life to take care of first, I left my baggage in the officers’ mess before braving the town in search of accommodation.
The nicer part of Londonderry was only a short walk from the barracks and I came to a detached abode with a ‘Bed and Board’ sign hanging lopsided from a window. I was shown inside by a man who spoke to the air above my head in another one of those indecipherable dialects.
“Room an’ meals fur foyve poynds a mont’.”
After several times, demanding he repeat himself, I gave him my return.
“Five bloody pounds? The devil with it…” I pointed outside the cracked window, “…have you seen the place? I could find board anywhere and they’d be all the more glad for it. Four pounds a month or I’ll take my business to one of the hundreds of other empty establishments.”
He accepted and, under the threat of my riding crop, I put him immediately to work fetching my baggage from the barracks. On account of my hunger, I soon realised this had been a mistake, but he returned twenty minutes later whence he was then put to the task of making breakfast.
A bowl of carrot broth and some bread were placed before me, which to my credit, I tasted. It wasn’t that it was bad, but I was a soldier, and would require a soldier’s bounty.
“I don’t know what the devil you’re playing at, Mr…um?”
“…Maguire.”
“Maguire…but this will not do at all. Now listen here…” the beanpole tried to interject but I shouted above him, “…I’m an Englishman from a grand country estate in Sussex and where I come from we’re used to breakfasting on ham, on eggs, on proper toast…you understand? Some bacon would be good if you have it…oh and some fresh coffee too. Bigod but this is what we feed our horses and if you’d had an education you’d understand. Now, I’ll let you off on this occasion, on account of us not understanding each other, but tomorrow I’d like that of which I’ve just stated.”
“Mr Strapper, sor…” he persisted, but I’d be damned if I could understand a single word of it, though by the way his arms were waving about his face, I could tell he was unable to comply with my request.
I pushed the soup away and found a nearby tavern that served something that could be described as decent English fare. Impressed, I summoned the chef to my table and offered him employment with a twenty percent increase on whatever he was already earning. He accepted on the spot and I told him that from now on he’d be cooking for me, to mind out of my way when I had lady company, to serve my meals on time lest he take a whipping and that when he goes to the butchers to ask only for the very best cuts of meat.
It was middle of the afternoon when I arrived back in the mess in time to meet some of my fellow officers. A notice on the message board had requested that the new intake be present to meet the colonel and now, spanking in fresh uniform, I was standing with a small glass of ale when every eye in the room clamped upon the old bugger as he emerged.
My commanding officer - The first thing one couldn’t help noticing was the limp, but what was it? Had he fallen off his horse, did he receive a bullet or trip descending the stairs? And the limp was so severe it had somehow distracted from his most prominent feature, that ridiculous moustache that projected either side of his chops far beyond what physics deemed possible and which contained enough tar to seal the hull of HMS Victoria; it sure put my cavalry whiskers in their place, aye. He spoke, or rather shouted, like he’d once been caught flatfooted too close to an exploding cannon, the madman, but it was what came next which confirmed to me, beyond any doubt, the degree of his psychosis.
Because his uniform was adorned with medals and I squinted at one in particular, one which was hardly conspicuous but was recognisable all the same. A small iron cross with the imprinted words ‘For Valour.’
It was a Victoria Cross!
And far from being awestruck that my colonel was one of the bravest men in the army, instead I experienced the same sensation I had the first time I went swimming as a child and thought I was drowning. Because what we had here was a genuine lunatic, and one who’d somehow been bestowed command over us. A man who’d throw his battalion at the enemy for the sake of the mission. A man who wouldn’t think twice before ordering his men to charge into an enemy cavalry brigade. A real fighting bastard. If nobody else had them, my instincts told me all I needed to know, and damned if I needed to speak to the man to know it. Oh, I had him marked alright.
Whilst the colonel made his way around the new intake, I tried to distract my mind from my trembling knees by turning my attention toward my fellows, in search of one saviour who might be a likeminded individual, another who was here largely against his will. I’ve found it never harms to be around one’s own in unfamiliar situations.
Between us, there were four lieutenants, two captains and even one who’d purchased a full majority, a chubby man in his mid-twenties with glasses and soft features who didn’t look like he’d stand one minute against even the French. For some reason, I was put off acquainting myself with him, probably on account of his superiority, at least with regards to rank.
But my eye did linger over one particular ginger captain whose uniform wasn’t quite so pressed as the rest, who didn’t stand with quite the same air of assurance and cool. Quite the contrary in fact, as his head hung as though he were out of his depth in a roomful from the upper crust. His red mutton chop sideburns made him stand out yet further, surrounded by men with the prevailing, definitive and established cavalry whiskers of our day, and I wondered if he was the only one who didn’t get the telegraph, he’d been turned down by the infantry, which was hard to achieve, or perhaps we merely had a natural rebel on our hands, a man who would hardly be out of place haranguing the wealthy in London’s East End, touting to spit shine your boots for a penny. He was my man, alright, and the fact we were both captains would put us on an even footing.
“Captain Strapper.” I held my hand out to the man whilst keeping a cautious eye on the approaching colonel.
He looked up and took my hand. “Strapper?” He twitched, “an unusual name that I think I envy. It sure beats Dolan.” It was a roundabout way of introducing himself but I’d take it. We glanced at the colonel together as he moved one officer down the line and I wondered if, like mine, Dolan’s intestines were also dissolving within him. “I must say, I’m nervous as all shite bein’ here, so I am.”
I’d chosen well but I couldn’t risk having him know I was just like him. “Why? There’s no war and…” and here I decided to waste no time in feeling him out a little further, “…and even in the unlikely event of one breaking out, I fully intend on selling my commission and taking the first boat back to England.” And that was no word of a lie.
He squinted and twitched again, a trait that was already beginning to grate. “War? What in da bejesus have yee taken?”
I cringed as Melville adjusted his position. “Will you keep still! Not only are you rubbing against me but you’re interrupting my flow, damn your eyes.”
Above our heads, Lady Fitzgibbon squealed with delight and my friend waited for her to settle down before speaking. “And quite remarkable a flow so far it is, and that you made it all the way to Londonderry without realising the entire country was undergoing an apocalypse…quite remarkable.” He shook his head with sarcastic admiration at my sheer lack of awareness.
I grimaced from the memory I was about to regurgitate for no better reason than to pass the time whilst we waited out the rogering above. “Looking back, I should have sold my commission right there, but who’d have been crazy enough to buy it?” I thought about Dolan, his stupid twitching face and sideburns. “The clues were there but it wasn’t until Dolan asked me ‘what in da bejeesus have yee taken?’ when my inbuilt coward’s advanced alarm system began ringing in my head.”
Melville touched my arm. “That’s what I was meaning to say…your Irish accent is atrocious, so why don’t you leave it out of the story from now on?”
“Oh charming, sir.” I cringed again. “And then I met the bloody colonel…”
Colonel Lord John Charles Henry Fitzgibbon, VC
To this day, it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever said and that I’d said it to none other than the commander of the regiment about summed it up. And not only did my opening words to the commanding officer permanently alienate him from me, on some levels, it alienated my fellow officers too - Word gets around, you see, especially when an insensitive young English upstart arrives in an already hostile part of the Empire and begins spouting his mouth with little or no knowledge of recent events or the place he’s at. Personally, I blame Eton. And the whole damned business probably cost me a promotion too.
Ironically, it was this moment, along with many others, that played its part in raising me to my present lofty position within the nation’s hearts. If only they knew the truth.
“Ah, my boy, you must be our English lad…stand out like balls on a bulldog, what?” He clapped me on the shoulder as my mind went fuzzy and all I could stare at was the horrifying VC pinned to his breast, evidence to his madness, which for some ungodly reason, he wore with pride. “Compliments on the whiskers, I dare say you’ll drive the ladies wild. And that you chose us and came all the way here of your own volition, you must be by far the bravest man in the room, no? Tell me, my boy…how was the journey?”
And then I opened my big mouth. “To be honest, sir, I found it all a bit dead.”
One of the lieutenants absolutely dropped his ale glass, smashing it against the floorboards, as the entire mess descended into a deafening silence.
“Oh, bejesus.” Whimpered another and even Dolan stepped away.
Then I winced from the pain in my shoulder because the colonel’s hand, which was still clasped around it, unconsciously gripped, and he began literally quivering while I could see the fury boiling inside of him. Like I said, he had it in for me from the start.
