Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 60
He slapped me again, “I ought to cut you open now and be done with it,” he wasn’t stupid enough to do that, “and I’ll see to it your gravestone’s broken down to Jack Strapper, nice and simple.” He was very wrong if he thought I gave two hoots about that. “Hampstead Heath at dawn.”
I spent another hour, at least, pleading and begging for the man to see sense, volunteering all kinds of alternatives, offers of exile, bribes, veiled threats, and more, but the fool just wouldn’t have any of it. The man was unbendable and it was only when he tired and began intentionally loading his pistol in front of me did I acquiesce, gather my togs and fly.
Of course, my only option was obvious, I’d purchased a bunker for just this precise eventuality, and without wasting a single minute, a quick trip to my room at The Prince of Saxe Coburg hotel was called for, to bag up as many belongings as I could. I told Smith to bring the gold from my Rochester residence and deliver it to my accountant promptly, a one Snodgrass & Sons of Westminster, and within a couple of hours, I was arriving at the same, beyond flustered and on the verge of blacking out through funk.
It was late, my life had been upturned all so very suddenly but as a man must, a coward especially, I’d made preparations. All would be well.
“I’d like to move in,” I informed the clerk come shadowy figure on the desk and after papers were exchanged, signatures were squiggled and palms had been greased, I was beginning that long slow descent into the abyss - All would be well.
When I was greeted by the next man, I progressed down the second long approach until finally, I beheld those large steel doors that would forever protect me from harm. The three mechanisms were unlocked, the door heaved open and once again I found myself in that enormous atrium that furnished me with such warm fuzzy feelings.
The fresh plaster had yet to break away and it was now even partially rigged out with oak panelling, low loungers and coffee tables. As before there were men working, dashing about with barrows, painting walls or sanding floors but there was one thing that had changed, those with their ears to the ground were aware of something, because now I found myself at the back of a line, perhaps ten or twelve deep, while the burly screws up front checked papers. Some waiting their turn were couples, one or two larger families were also here, but all donned clothes pertaining to their class - I’d be in suitable company here.
Now that I was away from the former world and safe, the anxiety I’d felt since my discovery beneath Fitzgibbon’s table dissolved most beautifully and I could noticeably feel the tension evaporate. I’d experienced a severe scare but because I’d had a coward’s foresight, and a means just as great, I’d been able to ensure my longevity whilst the commoners above, the colonel especially, could all rot and I wouldn’t care three figs. I was safe and that was all that mattered.
The door to the residences opened and a well-to-do couple were nodded through. By now more people were joining the line to my rear, I stepped forward with the queue and after a further fifteen minutes of blissful waiting I was third in line and beginning to dream of lounging back in a hot tub with a brandy and copy of punch when, for no apparent reason, I stuck my head out to see what was what.
And with that one small act, I felt the pain surge from my heart through my entire body to manifest in my extremities. It hurt even more than when Fitzgibbon had flung the table from over me.
“Yeer peepers,” demanded the Pikey with a face still pulped, eye patch and all.
“Careful, lad,” said the gentleman immediately behind after I stepped back into him.
“S…sorry,” I hissed as my vision blurred and my knees began to shake.
Sometimes you get lucky and I’ve had my fair share of that.
But other times the world is capable of playing the most cruel and unusual tricks that it can make you wonder whether there truly is a deity after all, and that He’s watching you very carefully indeed.
“In you go, sor,” the brute muttered and then I was second in line. “Yeer peepers.”
There was a sudden draught from behind as the door to the former world opened and another well-to-do gentleman arrived clutching a brace of holdalls. I dropped my baggage and rushed for the opening. “Sorry,” I almost cried to the footman, “forgot my cat.”
I spent the next three hours hunching in a dark corner of an alehouse, turning dram after dram, at my wits’ end and cursing my confounded luck whilst trying to determine what in the blazes my next move ought be. By morning, when I failed to show I’d have the regiment on lookout.
And it said much about my predicament that there was now only one option remaining, one place to go, and that was…
…To once again throw myself straight into danger’s way. Surrounded by four of the most hardened men in the world, protection from Pikey, cuckold, the dead and all.
It was time to join the Hallowed Churchy’s Chums.
I’m Really Here
I travelled through the night, sixty miles from London to Woodstock, pushing the coachman hard and the horses even harder.
I’d stolen a big march on Fitzgibbon, arriving in Oxfordshire whilst he’d be expecting my appearance in London’s dawn fog at any minute. He’d likely wait around for an hour, no matter the weather, then most probably travel the thirty miles in the opposite direction to Rochester. There, he’d call an emergency meeting of all officers, from where they’d argue and bicker, Sheehan and Murphy most heavily in my favour. At its conclusion they’d agree, somewhat reluctantly, that I was to be found, placed under guard and brought back. Then, I’d be exposed publicly, broken down, disgraced and likely paid a visit by Calcraft, for some crime dreamed up, or else forced to face the old man on the parade ground at some other dawn.
I’d thought about little else on the dash over, and thanks to the defective telegraphs, reasoned I had two days head start before they arrived at Strapper Palace, looted and stripped the pile bare before trotting next door to begin asking inconvenient questions of Churchill.
I was ushered into a drawing room by a butler, exhausted and fretful with anxiety but otherwise belting in the dark blue and gold trim of the 11th Hussars, sabre strapped beside my crop and shako held under an arm. I’d taken the time to shave so that my most beautiful feature, my cavalry whiskers, were entirely dashing this day. I was asked to wait in the large room with its painted vaults, sculptures and art and after a few minutes was escorted through another door.
The eyes watched as I entered, only silence so that my boots struck loud against the ground. I felt dizzy but what alternatives were there.
“He’s here! By Jove, but he came,” someone murmured.
“I knew he would, by God, but ain’t he gallant.”
Churchill was slow to stand and shook his head, all straggly pork chops and beaming whilst gesturing to the solitary spare seat. “Captain,” he said the word faintly, almost disbelieving, “please.”
My leg was shaking and I wasn’t sure whether it was owing to the ordeal of the last hours or because of what I was entering into, and voluntarily too. Even before taking my seat I was struck by the sudden fear my estimations might prove too heavily weighted in my favour and that maybe, even now, Fitzgibbon was charging nor-west with a squad of meanies carrying swords. I made my insecurities known at once.
“My lord, I care not for where you intend to send us just so long as it’s bloody soon.”
Someone inhaled a sharp breath in admiration and my eyes were briefly drawn to an older man with surprisingly soft and open features, allowing for the assumed present company, for my mind had yet to give form to the various blurred faces seated around the table, which was likewise strewn with various shakos, hats, riding gloves, sheaved sabres, Christ, and pistols.
I sat beside the older fellow, still completely aware I was being watched, studied, by everybody present, and found myself staring at a large scabbard protruding into my personal space.
“Relax, Jack,” Churchill began, “we’ll have you off soon. Have some coffee. Care for some figs? We have kipper and trout, bread…”
I twitched, “relax, you say? The dead may fall upon us at any moment and you’re asking me to relax? No, sir, but we must do something about that as soon as possible, even if it means leaving right this very moment.” I’d told groves I was heading north, hunting dead and gathering intelligence, for whatever purpose. He might unwittingly pass on my bluff but still, I wanted away from this place fast. “So whatever it is you have for Churchy’s Chums, or whatever we’re called, I say let us have it.”
“We’re Jack’s Lads now.” The imbecile stated matter of fact.
It was almost enough to put me to flight, such was my present state, for I’d assumed he’d named this ragtag band of rabble-rousers after myself, but a second’s thought was enough to allow that Jack was the diminutive form of John and that the egoist had, of course, meant himself, which suited me.
The older man at my side broke the tension. “Can’t wait to get stuck in, aye, Captain? That’s the spirit. Sounds just like the man I’ve read so much about.” Polite laughter ensued and my eyes were again drawn to the man’s sword. I might have grimaced. It was a beautiful, if odd, thing with intricate designs and symbols forged into the hilt’s steel. “You must excuse my manners,” the man spoke thick with one of those northern accents that implied hardship, wilderness and reiving for sheep, “name’s Major Baird … just returned from killing Chinks and forcing our opium on them.”
“God save the Queen,” someone else sang, though it sounded bloody awful.
Churchill glanced reproachfully at the interrupter then helpfully added, “the major distinguished himself in China, as well as the Crimea before that.”
Baird waved it away. “Just happy to serve Britannia, that’s all.” He waited for my introduction but neither Marlborough nor myself gave it and so we moved on.
“You fine men are all a part of what has never before been attempted in the history of Britannia, possibly even beyond and throughout all of history,” somehow I doubted the words, “we are arguably the most elite group ever assembled,” he spoke with a flourish and puffed out his pigeon chest, as though he were one of us. “Even though we’re of different ranks and experiences, we are equals in this unit.” We?
Now that I’d taken a minute to settle, I was able to briefly survey some minor particulars. Other than myself and Churchill, who wasn’t a part of us anyway, there were only three others present, a small group of “elites” indeed, and every time I attempted to gain a squint at any one of ‘em, I found them already staring back at me, so that I had to quickly look away. I stole a quick glimpse of one chap with long blond hair tumbling over shoulders, a drooping moustache and large brimmed hat beside bright white cavalry gloves set in front. He’d barely moved, had certainly not spoken, and at one point I had to prolong my gaze just to ensure he was even real at all, and that was not merely due to him never moving, but because he had a face almost like wax.
The fellow beside him was stroking the rough shadow about his neck and chin so that the vexing sound of grating sandpaper overwhelmed all else whenever Churchill ceased rambling long enough to breathe. Indeed, much of what was being said was drowned out to my ears in favour of this irritation.
“We must take it to the dead, not wait behind lines for them to attack, but we can’t just send the whole army in … no, no, no, that won’t do it, but what are they about to go and do anyway? Just that, else why would they be here? More human fodder, or folly, should I say, just add to their bloody numbers, what? That won’t do no good, no we can’t have that, can we? No, no, no. And what do they got? Muskets, cannon, cavalry. Well, sirs, in case you don’t recall, we bloody well tried all that rot in Ireland and it failed, Scotland and it failed, Wales too, by Jove, and now they intend to try the same guff here? It won’t do, I say to you all, did I ever tell you about my fourth great-grandfather?…”
I switched off, distracted anyway by horrific visions of Fitzgibbon charging through fields and villages, leaping streams and crossing county borders, the wind at his grey hair and a battalion at his back. The maddening scrapes from across the table put an end to the spectre and I could see now the powdered dark hair tied into a bun kept in a small white sack at the back of his head. He saw me staring and I quickly averted my gaze.
“…It was all new, you see, nobody did it like he did back then … innovated … organised … owe him so much … great man … great, great man … logistics … modernised … professional … warm meal … caring shoulder … the secret. And that’s exactly what we’re doing.” Marlborough paused for effect, perhaps for some reaction from us but there was none. “The future is engines, bigger, better, faster, more dangerous engines, engines driving big machines, which is what we’ve been doing. About six months ago, I took the liberty of commissioning a number of engineers and inventors to come up with something better, new weapons to use against the dead. I had them work in secret, answering only to me and from a location known only by me. Over time they requested more money, more materials, more men and I gave it best I could. But then the telegraphs went to pot and now finding an imbecile willing to travel through the planks ain’t easy, as well you know.” I guessed that was where we were supposed to come in. But the allusion to forests caused me to shudder, as did the mention of weapons and I recalled the many toys Marlborough was playing with on my last visit. The man was beyond dangerous. “To put it simply, all communication has been lost. Last I heard we were on the verge of completing something that could well change everything and as luck would have it, that was the very day some errant dead fellow chose to bite through an important ruddy cable.” He pulled a large scroll out from a bookshelf and unrolled it on the table. “If you would be so kind, Colonel Willie.”
It was a map and Scratchy placed a plate of figs upon the end to hold it down. I leaned forwards and recognised the names of some of the larger towns. We’d be heading west, by the looks of it, beyond the line, a place Fitzgibbon would not go without authorisation, but which just so happened to be the bloody frontier, and uncomfortably close to the River Severn. Even now, I could see where it forked with the Avon at a town that went by the name of Tewkesbury, which was still too close to the Mouth of the Severn to be fordable, and therefore likely safe, though anything much farther north of that was up for debate. I watched carefully for where Marlborough was about to place his finger.
“At the country pile of my first cousin, God rest his sweet soul, Kempsey Manor, or should I say, Kempsey Fort. Here!” And he stabbed his plump little sausage at the last place I would have liked, a patch of green within the fork, considerably more northerly than comfortable and horrifyingly close to the eastern bank of the Severn. If that place was fordable, or even if it was close to a location that was easy enough for the dead to cross then we were potentially heading straight into the path of the Welsh Horde, fresh, confident and enlarged after their victory over the Taffies.
On hearing of our mission for the first time, Baird gave an eye to the itchy Willie, but I could discern nothing from it. How did this mission compare to their expectations? Because I’d had not one clue as to what I was getting myself in for. Truth be known, I still didn’t.
“That’s your job.” Churchill allowed the map to furl of its own accord before replacing it to the bookshelf. I supposed we were meant to remember where it was, the name too, which had already escaped me. “Get to the fort, gentlemen, deliver it, secure it, protect it, protect them, kill as many ghouls as necessary by any means necessary, use whatever they have, save bloody Britannia.” And then give you the credit, you swine. Well, he could have it for all I cared. A madman he might be though my admiration for Lord Marlborough was beginning to grow. This was all on him, I doubted many, if any, in officialdom knew of what he was conniving, he’d get the credit for everything, all whilst remaining entrenched within his palace, safe, just another English eccentric occupying his time.
Colonel Willie cleared his throat, which had to have come from deep down, an awful rasp that made Baird jolt. “If your miraculous engineers have created some new weapon then why aren’t they using it? Why aren’t they clearing the dead from Wales, Scotland, the north?” His voice was beyond rough, a man who lived on a diet of razor blades, certainly, he’d yet to learn about using one on his chops. The scratching resumed.
Churchill was silent, not that he’d been stumped, but because he wanted to add gravity to whatever he was about to say. “Gentlemen, six months ago there was much talk about the disappearance of a certain man,” Baird straightened and I felt my throat tighten, “you all know who I mean … he came to me, disillusioned, worked to the bloody bone and, some might say, on the brink of madness.” He turned briefly away to face the wall, took a few breaths then returned. “We talked through the night and it was then I knew Britannia was doomed, that our beautiful England was doomed. The line is folly, he said, it can’t be completed and something else must be done … we must attack! But with what? He showed me his private doodles, plans, diagrams, outlines, prints, models even. He had the ideas, as he always did, but what he lacked was money, resources, men. Well, I had two of those, all thanks to my fourth great-grandfather, you see, we owe him so much, and so I sent him to my cousin, who had the other thing … Colonel of the North Gloucestershires, you see, God rest his soul, and from there they went to work.”
We all knew the grisly fate of Sir Henry John William Bentinck, who’d died along with his entire regiment, the 28th North Gloucestershire Regiment of Foot, attempting to defend Wales.
Marlborough’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm upon the table, he continued. “Only, our great engineer was a shadow of his former self, on account of the impending madness, or syphilis, and he decided Kempsey weren’t for him and that he wanted to work at Blenheim instead … peaceful, he said, less banging, fewer distractions, and so he came back here, shut himself away to tinker on the most important components whilst his boys at the manor made the bulk of the machines without him.” Finally, he looked at Willie and answered the bloody question. “So in response to you, they ain’t clearing the dead because we have the bloody engine parts. Ain’t much good here … oh, did I mention it, you’ll be taking them with you.”
