Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 54
“Don’t worry, Captain, I’ll be sure to look after the man, all right.” He passed back a book and blushed, “this one’s for me.”
I winked and placed my mark and after he left, returned to the job at hand, F0373 for the chaps in Barnstaple. I tossed the completed order in the out-tray and checked my timepiece.
Eleven in the morning.
“Time to bag a whore.”
It was after lunch when I staggered out from Bella’s, sidestepping a newspaper vendor declaring how the Welsh Horde were indeed presently shambling north and east along the western bank of the Severn, which meant it could only be a matter of time before a suitable fording location was found and England proper would be assaulted. I was already late and had to rush to catch a coach to Tufton Street, Westminster, from where I found myself in the middle of a bland terrace of generic London soot-covered brick staring up at a sign that read Snodgrass & Sons Accounting & Bookkeeping. The name itself forced a sigh. Further down the street a Black Maria was doing its rounds, parading its gruesome contents to the still disbelieving.
I entered, triggering a bell above the door and the small, fragile, bespectacled middle-aged man behind the desk looked up from a pile of books and papers that almost obscured his body. The air reeked of old parchment and ink.
“May I be of service, sir?” The man asked, prodding up his spectacles. He looked every bit the accountant.
I sniffed, “I prefer my tea from Ceylon.”
The man glanced me over and hummed, “and your coffee?”
“Arabia.”
He placed down his pencil and removed his spectacles before hauling aside the desk. It rang as though it were set into a steel track before stopping with a sudden clang, revealing a door in the ground where the desk had been. Not one book had moved. He wrenched the heavy door up by the handle in a way that displayed a veiled strength and as I trod wearily towards the hole I noticed the muscles beneath his weskit and the crossed anchors tattooed over his knuckles. “Jones will assist you.” His voice was different somehow, deeper, harsher.
Another man, slightly-built, similarly bookish, fingers stained with ink, though strutting with the assuredness of the only rooster in a coop full of hens, appeared from the other room holding a lamp. “This way, sir, mind your step.”
The hole went straight down and had it not been for the lamplight, I doubted I’d be able to see beyond the first three steps. The distinctive smell of wet mortar drifted up from the void. We started and our footsteps echoed against the closeness of the bricks and then the door was closed and a high-pitched whimper escaped me. We continued to descend as the air became ever staler until, after what seemed like several minutes, we struck level ground and the light’s glow revealed a heavy oak door. Jones knocked and as the door creaked open, a second lamp appeared from the other side. No words were exchanged as the accountant gestured for me to follow the new man further within. I shuffled past and followed the lamp down a corridor that now possessed a lingering smell of damp earth, the ground beneath my boots crunched and I had the sense we were walking down a very gentle slope. We continued for anywhere between four and five minutes, the keys from his belt jangling rhythmically the whole way, in what might have been the gloomiest spot on earth had it not been for the small light. Beneath my boots, I had the feeling of something rumbling, the air became ever mustier and harder to breathe until finally, up yonder the passage widened before another door, this one larger, wrought from iron, and was illuminated by a solitary lantern that flickered from a hook. The man used his keys to unlock one, two, three mechanisms before heaving the door open and ushering me through it.
I found myself in a large atrium.
The door closed behind me, not that I heard it, because the rumblings superseded all else, seemed to come from all around, deep vibrations that discomforted my equilibrium and made my ear canals itch terribly. Two men panted across my fore, heaving a large chest between them and concentrating my mind so that then I was struck by the activity, dozens of Paddies in workmen’s breeches passing through various doors, openings and hatches, holding shovels, wheelbarrows, or else wheeling carts filled with settees, cabinets, tables and all manner of well-to-do furnishings. Several large piles of plaster had gathered on the ground beneath the now exposed brickwork, a cursory glance revealed many more extensive fissures in the attempts. There was another deep rumbling from below but nobody stopped and neither did anybody heed the huge chunk of pargeting that collapsed suddenly from one of the high walls to form a new heap. The air was thick and the lamps flickered but at least it was light and I approached the two burly men guarding one of the doors.
“Yeer peepers.” One near completely toothless rogue reeled off in thick, almost unintelligible tinker. Unfortunately, I’d been around too many of this sort and understood their utterings. I passed him my identification, gold edged, and signed by Palmerston himself. “Strapper?” Tufts of thick ginger pushed out the rims of his cap which covered a face still bruised from last night’s recreation. He looked me over from his superior height, doubtless comparing the legend to himself. I could swear some of their type knew mind tricks and could see deep into your soul but after a tick and a petulant smirk, he simply grunted, handed back my credentials and opened the door.
“Captain Strapper,” the man sprang out from behind a desk to greet me with an outstretched hand, “it’s an honour,” though his voice failed to conceal the disappointment he evidently felt, for I was here, after all. Not that he could talk.
I cleared my throat. “An easier job sneaking into the Queen’s bedroom.”
He flapped a downcast hand, “would you have it any other way?”
I hummed with approval, “indeed, good sir, it’s all I could have asked for.” My attention was stolen by the splendour of what was, or was about to become, basically, one of the communal areas for the residents. Wisely, they’d forgone the plaster for oak panelling and it possessed architrave that would not have looked out of place in one of the Duke of Marlborough’s drawing rooms, and all varnished to a shiny hue. The chaise longues were furnished with the most beautifully patterned velvet and I wondered if it was real gold styled into the footrests. On a plinth in the corner, strangely, stood an entire suit of armour with a large capsule for the genitals up front and conspicuous.
The clerk, who went by the name of Dalton, was still regarding me uncertainly, like it was hard to believe Captain Jack Strapper had purchased a bunker to escape it all. He wore civvies and might have been any one of Whitehall’s quill scratchers but for the small Regina Victoria medal pinned at his breast, denoting he was a veteran of the campaign in the Crimea. He was still sighing and squinting with an unforeseen consternation, almost like one might when struggling to toilet, when I had to physically induce the man to make move along the hallway because I wasn’t having this, no sir. I’d paid my money, up front and in advance and I’d be damned before being guilted out of it.
“Don’t look at me like that, do what you’re paid to do, man.” I was still gripping him by the arm as I led him abreast a large aquarium set into the wall. “I want to see what my fifty thousand pounds has bought and be enthusiastic about it, would you, else I might see to it that you and your family are locked out when…”
That did it. “Of course, sir.”
“I hazard you don’t give the Generals Cardigan and Napier the same treatment? Oh aye, I’ve heard the rumours. Well, sir, if people like that are taking precautions then what good am I all on my own?”
“Yes, of course, I do apologise.”
The hallway split to the left and right, as well as continuing forwards, each path further revealing grand staircases to other levels, it was large, far more complex than I’d envisioned, as we passed door after uniform door, almost all with a tag on the knob that stated ‘sold.’ Dalton remarked that some of London’s best had already taken up residence and more were arriving by the day. The problem with doing that was the boredom and lack of wenches. Another issue was that a wealthy lord might be able to move down with the family and go unnoticed but the moment I disappeared questions would be asked, which might put the entire operation at risk and I couldn’t have that. Besides, purchasing a bunker was merely an insurance policy, and despite the general gloom that had befallen Britannia, I still assumed our boys would defeat this bloody menace, without my help, of course.
Up one level and down three more hallways and we still hadn’t reached my fastness but what I did get was a good squint at the quantity of national treasures they’d pillaged. Just how many of the art pieces had been, um, borrowed from the Victoria and Albert Museum, the Tower, and who knew where else, it was hard to say, as I wasn’t much of an art man myself, apart from my own masterpieces, that was. There were however several items I did recognise.
“The Elgin Marbles?”
The man smirked. “Not all of them, at least not yet, these things have to be done slowly lest the press get a sniff but you’d be amazed at what we’re bringing down here with us … for safe keeping, you understand.” Formerly part of the Temple of the Parthenon, The Earl of Elgin had kindly lifted the precious Marbles from Greece fifty years before and now, what were considered some of the world’s most valuable artefacts were to be pinned on my communal wall. “By the way, if you were wondering if that was King Henry VIII’s suit of armour, you’d be right.”
I wasn’t, as it happened, but now I was speculating whether they’d yet brought down the Koh-i-Noor but sadly, it was beginning to appear the state wasn’t holding out much hope we could defeat this thing. There’d been secret tunnels, bunkers and holes built beneath London, in case of French invasion, for centuries, but this was the first I’d heard of them actually going ahead with moving the nation’s greatest treasures for safekeeping. It truly spoke volumes about the futility of our position.
“Do we have enough air down here?” I grabbed his elbow, “I don’t fancy a death by suffocation.”
His step slowed as he glanced at me with a dipped brow, grimacing slightly from my hold. “We have air, Captain, there’s no need to worry on that score.”
“But how? We’re deep in the bowels of London. Reassure me, man.” My hand was squeezing him by this point.
He sighed and went on to explain how there were dozens of steel lined tunnels, inlets and vents cutting paths towards the Thames embankment, various fields, private gardens and even one in the outside communal area of Parliament. They were disguised in all manner of ways, as plant features, utility sheds, even a pigsty, and some had entire structures built over them.
My questions persisted; could these inlets guarantee the supply of air, for how long would the food last, water, who was responsible for carrying away the shit and he went on to explain that many of us would be allocated tasks best suited to our abilities; water filtration, waste disposal, rearing cattle etc. “The best jobs will go first so feel free to get in early with your request.”
I shuddered, all the more reason to delay slipping my cable for as long as possible.
“And you won’t need to worry about recreation,” he began as we stopped a brief moment in what would soon become the bunker’s bar, where a gurning Paddy was applying a fresh coat of paint to the wall, “we’ve our own distillery and brewery, not to mention facilities for cricket, a theatre and library. I know it’s not quite London proper,” he conceded, “but I hazard we’ll fare better than most.”
“Yes,” I groaned.
Another Paddy’s head bobbed up from behind the counter, clenching a screwdriver between toothless gums, and then another appeared with a plank of wood slung over a shoulder. They all looked a bit too happy considering a room in this place was more than just a little above their pay grade and this realisation brought a fresh barrage of questions.
“What of the labour?” I was squeezing his arm again. “We can’t have Maguire, Quinn and O’Leary bunking down with Arundel, Carstairs and Fotherington, it goes against nature, and neither can any of them be trusted to keep their traps shut. Aye, shared their company on more occasions than I care to count and there ain’t much a Paddy likes more than getting drunk and telling tales.” My hand pulsed and the man winced. “They know the bloody entrances!”
But what to do about it? We were outnumbered hundreds to one and I hardly fancied the prospect of slipping away from the dead only to find myself tussling with an angry Paddy who’d been promised he’d be sharing a bunk with his allotted member of the upper crust, all in exchange for having built the bloody thing, and that was before taking into account the obvious drain in resources they’d prove to be. I was about to suggest slipping rat poison into their turnip stew when Dalton explained that from the offset, they’d been allocated the air tunnels that were spread out along the Embankment, which was where they rested and recovered from long shifts, or otherwise drank, gambled and brawled. “When the order comes, we simply lock the gates,” he said so simply, from when I presumed they’d either have to swim across the Thames and join the war effort or else starve or drown at high tide.
“And how, pray tell, will you get them all in the tunnels at the same time?”
The man didn’t flinch. “You do worry, sir. For months, we’ve been having regular drills. The sergeants ring the bells and all labourers dash for the tunnels; fire, a roof’s fallen in, zombies have somehow made it inside, you get the idea,” he couldn’t help but smirk and I felt warm and fuzzy, “it’s all taken care of.”
I laughed and felt the relief flood through me. “Oh, to be the man who gets to lock them out.” I could see it now, thanks chaps for all you’ve done but your services are no longer required, leave the tools but you may keep your overalls and try not to curse too loudly on the way out. Their reaction … now, that would be something worth seeing.
The fellow with the paintbrush caught my eye and made that clicking sound that so many Paddies do when attempting to instigate conversation with a superior. “Top of da mornin’ too ya, sor.” It was late afternoon, as it happened, but when you put in sixteen-hour shifts toiling deep underground in a state of near-permanent intoxication, such minor oversights can be forgiven.
“And a good morning to you too, good sir.” I tossed the man a coin and he subconsciously scanned across to the bar, remembered it wasn’t open yet, and then conceded to pocket the fiscal. I turned back to Dalton. “I think I’m ready to see my room.”
As it transpired, it was more than a mere room but something more resembling my suite at The Prince of Saxe Coburg. I’d made sure to get in early with an offer for one of their best, although it still required some furnishing and it was to that end that Dalton was now primed with a pencil.
“I’d like some frilly-edged cushions for the divan and make sure its gold-trimmed, like how you have in that communal place, I’ll not have a common area more extravagant than my own, you understand? I’d like fresh flowers for the vases brought daily with my breakfast and make sure it’s of ham, bacon, eggs, black pudding and coffee.” The bed was large enough but not yet goose feathered and the bathtub was made of wood and lined on the inside with steel. I didn’t like the look of that and jabbed it with my boot. “I’d like this switched for one of those all-marble things, like Marlborough has, you ever see it?”
“Sir, I…”
“It should have a gas furnace set above, and build it into the wall, this ain’t no good, no, no, no, rip it all out if you have to. Punch!”
“Excuse me?”
“The rag! Is it possible to have my copy delivered?”
The clerk scratched away feverishly, “bath, gas, Punch, indeed, sir, Mayhew and Landells will be joining us and will continue to distribute their magazine, although it will most likely be a slimmed down version.”
“Slimmed down?” This was hard to believe. “They’ll be squatting with the ruling elites during an apocalypse, I hardly think they’ll struggle for material.”
He sighed, “material’s not the problem but the abandonment of their staff and…”
“Nonsense, oh, by the way,” I perked, “who’re the neighbours? Oh, never mind, you’re probably not at liberty to say,” I already knew the Rothschilds had an entire floor to themselves but other than that, and for obvious reasons, details had been kept tighter than a Scotchman’s purse, “just answer me one thing?”
“I will do my best, sir?”
“Have any rooms been sold to a one Colonel Fitzgibbon?”
His eyebrows dipped. “Who?”
I clapped him on the back. “That’s good enough for me.”
Which brought me to the final part of my triple lock defence and arguably the most important, removing the one man who still held it within his power to order me into danger. One might think I’d already done enough to stay out of his way, except some things had proved too tempting.
And it was to that end the leather bit now cracked most delightfully against her buttock.
She yelped and it filled me with lust, so much that I thrashed her again and again, the cuts and lacerations from our previous encounters were still not fully healed.
“Oh, Strappy,” Lady Fitzgibbon began from her position, bent over the laundry press, “the other cheek, the other cheek,” her knuckles were white as she gripped the handle.
I struck her a final time and groaned as I dropped my breeches before commencing to pummel away. “Send me to the woods, Colonel? Send me to Garrison, will you, Colonel? Stick me with Lynch, did you, Colonel? Make me do my duty, aye, Colonel?”
She twisted around with a deranged questioning expression but I warned her not to look at me so she turned back from whence she began yelping with delight. At one point she was so loud I had to glance back to double check I’d applied the latch. Irritatingly, her skirts had slipped down and when I tossed them back I saw the blood from her rump was bright against the white of the inside fabric. At one point someone knocked on the door but I paid it no heed and I thrust a hand into her red mane and tugged as I collapsed over her, breathless. She reached down into a basket and pulled out a sheet of linen, which I used to dry my face. We straightened and adjusted ourselves with barely a word, as was our way, and with no mirror in the laundry room, she ensured I was presentable, smoothing down my gold trimmed blue jacket of the 11th Hussars, straining to fasten the buttons, as I attached the sword and checked my hard-earned medals were still in situ.
