Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 63
“I was hoping there’d be a painting … a pretty portrait in the meadow perhaps … daisy in her hair, but this … this is just so beyond … it’s her, it’s truly her, the hair, eyes, skin, everything, in perfect detail, exactly how I remember her, only … even more beautiful, if that’s possible.”
“Best not torture yourself, man, you ain’t betrothed no more, that all went to snot when you decided on wiping out a company of fusiliers. It’s all on you and your pain is your penitence.”
Savage plucked at his rags, “I would not have her see me like this,” clearly he wasn’t hearing Marlborough, “and she’s truly confined behind the walls of Kempsey, you say?”
“That’s where she still lives, aye, and for your information, she’s inherited the pile, not that it makes any difference to you where she might be.”
“Damn your eyes, my lord, but what more need I do to redeem myself if saving England is not enough?” Savage pulled his eyes away from the portrait long enough to deliver that point and Churchill found he did not have an answer, which only encouraged Savage further. “I did wrong and I’ve paid dearly, I’ve lost everything, my lord, everything, my name, my title, my inheritance, my reputation, my honour, my life … a pox on all of it, just don’t take my Tilly too.”
“As you’re aware, the responsibility for that girl now falls to me, after my cousin…” Marlborough sighed, “and I will not…” he pinched at the skin above his nose. “Listen, Tilly’s my goddaughter, though, in truth, I care for that girl as though she were my own and I will not see her come to harm.”
“Harm is what shall come if I don’t make it to Kempsey in good time, to be with her.”
Churchill conceded with a nod and was silent whilst he considered his words. “You’ve done wrong, Bain, of course, you realise this, but only the most hard-faced of men would not consider your good name restored should you succeed in this duty.”
“Yes,” he hissed, his voice filling with hope and optimism, “and you know I would never bring harm to Miss Bentinck, I’ve loved her ever since our first meeting in the paddock. She rides so finely and would make a dutiful wife for me.” His boot scuffed against a flag. “I kept her favour for four years, did you know, a small ribbon she gave me, I kept it all through the … everything … that is, until London … so recent,” his fist clenched and his voiced changed, “that was when they took it from me, in the Tower. They laughed that Major Bain Savage would have such a thing, that someone could love him and they made me watch as the turnkey wiped his arse with it.”
“It was just a piece of ribbon, Bain, as you’ve told me again and again and I’ll have to apologise to Father Philips for the constant interruptions to his sermon. Oh, but I’ll have to marry her off to someone, I suppose, truth be told I was rather hoping I could persuade Captain Strapper to…”
“Who?”
“You know, the fat one … black hair, whiskers, chap who almost saved Ireland and Scotland all on his own, was nowhere to be found during the Welsh fiasco, more’s the pity, we might have saved it, anyway, between you and me, I suspect the man’s a bit of a John, which don’t rule him out necessarily, you understand, it’s just that I can’t be sure it’s what he’d want.”
Savage seized Marlborough’s arm. “I would strongly caution against that, my lord.” He let go and patted down where he’d squeezed. “I love her, she’s all I’ve thought about these years past and…”
“As you’ve bleeding well told me.” Marlborough’s voice softened. “You do torture yourself, man, there are other women in this world.” There was silence for a while. “Clearly, you’re taken by her still.” He hummed. “Let me consider it … I rather had you for disgrace and now you bring me this so suddenly. I need time.”
Savage inhaled loudly. “My lord, you will not regret this, I will take Kempsey, I will hold it until doomsday, I will protect her personally, I will slay every dead freak I find, I will…”
“Damn your eyes, Bain, I said I’d think on it, now, will you leave it rest. It’ll all be for nought unless we get you all moved along.” Marlborough tugged at his sleeve again but once more Savage resisted. “Oh, what now?”
He gestured to the portrait with a sidewards nod. “You, um, wouldn’t mind leaving me alone with Miss Bentinck for a few minutes, my lord?”
Churchill deigned to do so and with a grunt, stomped out through the far end of the chamber. Savage turned back and gazed at whoever it was who’d enraptured him before sliding a paw inside his tattered breeches and commencing to tug away.
I left the fellow be and returned outside to find that finally, they were saddling horses and bringing wagons filled with various sacks and crates, some of which were stamped with the Horse Guards insignia.
Colonel Willie was beside the most stunning, muscular and beautiful stallion I’d ever seen and I watched as he waved away the stable boys, who’d brought them all down, so he could groom its mane and saddle the beast himself. I wondered if it was one of Marlborough’s, since it seemed myself, Baird and Metcalfe were all being given horses from his stables. When I put this to the colonel, he made a mock horrified expression.
“I couldn’t do that, Strappy, it’d feel like cheating,” he patted the animal on the flank then ran a finger along its intricate braids that he probably weaved himself, “his racing days might be over but still, Horace is the finest horse I’ve ever had the pleasure to ride and I know he won’t let us down when we’re out there.”
I’d fought gallantly in two different cavalry regiments and had never seen such love, care and respect for a horse as that, still, I wondered how he’d take to having a crate or two of engine parts strapped to its hide.
Baird and Metcalfe were now straining to lash their mounts with the large boxes, packhorse style, so that each beast was sufficiently balanced with a crate secured on each flank. It was all taking yet more time and I found myself pacing about the lawn, checking my timepiece every few minutes and having to humour Baird’s good-natured remarks about being in a hurry to die and that if the Gods were good, maybe we’d die at the same time, we both clutching our swords that we might meet our ancestors together and it’d all be one big jamboree in the afterworld with fighting and drinking and humping.
An hour later, Savage came strutting out from the palace looking a different man. He was grinning uncontrollably, as though something had given him a new reason for living and even the hunch seemed to have almost straightened, making him appear considerably taller. He was togged smartly in white breeches and cravat beneath brown weskit covered by a jacket of finest grey wool. The wild beard was gone, revealing a jaw like a tombstone, though of course, the obligatory muttons remained, along with a fine black moustache he’d opted for, giving the appearance of one you’d not ask to mind your hat and cane whilst you nipped to the latrine. His hair had been cropped also and was parted neatly at the side and the rogue might have been considered elegant, if not for those two dark eyes. He bounded straight for the weapons, ignoring everything and everyone and for a moment I wondered if he’d even noticed Willie mere paces away, scowling from across his horse. Savage inspected various blades, before settling on a wicked looking curved thing with jagged edges. He moved onto the firearms, forgoing the revolvers completely and thrusting into his belt a more familiar percussion cap pistol.
Kinmont was still watching him, warily, as the rogue noticed the cage carrying our pigeons. His face illuminated and he delved an arm inside before pulling one out from whence he began lovingly stroking the bird and pressing it against his cheek and only when it came to strapping the cage to one of the remaining horses did he put the thing back where it belonged. It seemed everything was idyllic in the world of Major Bain Savage, as it should have been, for he’d been spared a slow choking on the end of a rope, not that that fact dissuaded him from once again haranguing the very man who’d somehow secured his life. He pulled him beneath an empty marquee and from there commenced gesticulating, his lordship shook his head and tried to wave him away but after several minutes Marlborough eventually threw down his hands, as if in surrender, and then Savage emerged grinning even wider than before.
People were now gathering around, those final few moments of prattle before things finally got moving. I exhaled and felt suddenly terrified, it was more real now, this was happening. Jack’s Lads, we five warriors of Britannia, now went to our horses and I was dismayed to find I was left with the mount lashed to a cage filled with yapping birds. I hated them, we had history, and so I feigned a sneezing fit, pleaded an allergy and bade someone switch horses but nobody so much as stirred. This despite Savage earlier having coddled one of them, kissed its filthy feathers and made gooey noises down its ear.
“No takers?” I asked again as I eyed keenly Willie’s capable looking ride.
That was the moment it hit. I was used to most people, soldiers, fellow officers, superiors even, being completely subservient and bending over to accommodate my every whim. But here; Willie simply lost a hand in his horse’s mane, the waxwork stared ahead unmoved and Savage gave me an almost hostile stare. Only Baird displayed any sympathy for my allergy but even he quickly looked away when I attempted to make eye contact. No, these hardened men, these VCs and experienced killers gave not two hoots for me, my reputation or my outstanding war record, it was all nothing to them and I was suddenly overwhelmed with the dread, the possibility, that unlike Major Murphy and the like, this lot might not be so easily malleable. After all, most of em were freshly landed off the boats and knew nothing of the legend, fable and hysteria that had been surrounding my person these two years gone. No, I may not be so vaunted in the present company and might, therefore, be expected to prove my supposed worth, and all on a level playing field with the rest of them, who also happened to be the best of them.
How might that go?
In full view of my comrades, I thrust a foot into the stirrup and required seven full attempts to heave myself up, the rotten birds flapped and complained and sent a cloud of feathers and dust and shit all over my freshly pressed uniform and when I finally mounted the horse was startled and sidestepped to the right, almost sending me over. Something obscenely tight grabbed ahold of my forearm.
“Easy there, sir, you’ve seen a pigeon afore,” Tanner Metcalfe said as he aided my balance.
I nodded and whilst Churchill and various stable boys and staff waved us off and we crossed the makeshift bridge of barrels and planks, all I could do was dread what was to come.
Because whether they believed or even knew of the hype surrounding myself, I doubted it would take long for the inevitable cracks in my façade to appear, and when they did, what then?
Surely, I wouldn’t have long to find out.
The Long Road Through The Forest
As the crow flew, it was fifty miles nor-west to Kempsey. All going well, we’d arrive in good order by sunset the following day, or at the latest, early the day after that, assuming we encountered no impediments. This forecast was optimistic, if realistic, and was based on the final convoys that’d been sent out, in good weather, using the main roads and all long before the dead had threatened from the west. We were a lean force and mobile, which was the whole idea, and were not burdened by too much baggage, however, these things, as I well knew, seldom go as one plans.
The first obstacle was to be the Brunel Line and we came to meet it within minutes of leaving Blenheim. It did not take long to see what had pushed its designer, as well as Marlborough, into taking drastic ulterior action.
We had a good view of the works from atop a hill, a line that had intended to protectively enclose everything to the south and east of Oxford, using what few natural barriers the landscape possessed, such as rivers, wherever possible. To this end, we could see the bridge over the River Glyme had been destroyed but from our position, it resembled a river in name only and I doubted the dead would struggle to cross such a pitiful thing. The scene before us was the very north and westernmost point of the defence, the line’s supposed intersection, though in truth, if it were ever completed, it would more resemble a very gentle and continuous curve stretched out over a great distance.
The landscape was marked by tents, about fifty of them gathered in clusters on the eastern side. When scanning from one side of the vista to the other, one could make out the large gaps in the line’s foundations, almost like the men had lost interest digging one section, walked for a few minutes along the line, only to take up the job again after some random interval. Enormous piles of bricks and timber sat heaped on the eastern side still needing to be sunk, numerous wagons waited idly along the road and red uniformed dots ambled along the paths or otherwise stood doing nothing as thin trails of smoke wisped from pipes. Sheep grazed on both banks as though all was well with the world. Little about the scene inspired confidence and there was no rational explanation for why so little was being done other than that perhaps there was nobody of any sense leading them.
“Not much going on around here,” Baird remarked to nobody in particular. “All the easier to sneak past the buggers.”
I doubted there’d be much issue with five men on horseback venturing across the line. If we wanted to risk whatever ghouls lurked beyond then that was on us. Nobody would care whether we came back or not but to see the desolation in our path was to feel sick.
The villages were still, without so much as a black trail of smoke drifting from any of the thatched cottages and neither were there any carts or horses on the roads, men working fields or tending the gardens. Further out, the forests and rolling fields made for a never-ending blanket of green with only the occasional drystone wall, country hedge or stream adding the smallest bit of colour.
Life might have been still, though, I knew, that did not necessarily presage the worst. As with Ireland and Scotland, in England, there were indeed folk in hamlets, villages, towns and cities that were known to be “staying to make the best of it,” as was the stoic British way, most notably those settlements with ancient walls such as York, Exeter and Chester. Their thinking - How might our line succeed where theirs, built by the Romans, Vikings or Saxons fail?
To an extent, I had seen the success of walls in Ireland, Londonderry to be precise, where the struggle had only grown desperate once food had become scarce and abandoning the country altogether had become the only option. To that end, I knew there would be settlements out there that still survived, places besides Kempsey Manor. The towns of Tenby and Conwy in Wales both possessed formidable bastions, even if nothing had been heard of those distant places in months, which could, in fact, mean anything. Conversely, it was also known that the northern border town of Berwick-upon-Tweed had been overcome by the dead despite its walls, receiving the Scottish Horde full whack. The town was known for possessing daunting barriers owing to the constant wars between Scot and Saxon, and that throughout its history, the stronghold had changed hands no fewer than thirteen times. Walls were your best bet, though even they were far from a guarantee.
A soldier, stripped off to the waist and clenching a pipe between teeth, spotted our five horses and approached as we aimed for a small clearing between two piles of masonry. “I ain’t supposed to let anyone through this way,” he spoke with one of those unintelligible northern accents, damned if I could tell which, “but … seeing as though there’s not much I can do on my own against you lot…” he let it trail off.
“You can look the other way.” Savage completed for him, even though it was unnecessary. He scratched his head and examined the scene, other men were idly watching but ultimately not caring. “Tell me, is it like this all along the line?”
The soldier blew out a plume of smoke, “I beg your pardon?”
Savage nodded in the direction of a man dozing in the shadow of an apple tree. “Is it like this all along the line?”
“Like what?” The squaddie asked petulantly.
Savage readjusted himself in the saddle so that the leather creaked, crop relaxed in his right hand and hummed, “like people who’re meant to be digging trenches, foundations, setting bricks, rolling out the wire, constructing towers, are they all instead wasting England’s time and placing their fellow countrymen in a peril from which they might never recover?”
The soldier removed his pipe and scowled, though whether it was owing to the insult or because he recognised the man who’d given it, I couldn’t say, and nor would I ever find out because, in a flash, Savage brought up his crop and struck the man across the face. To my astonishment he was able to get in three strikes; left, right and back before his victim could even react. The soldier staggered back, clutching his bloody cheek and Savage kicked his heels so that his horse butted the man over. He came to land cropside and Savage brought down the lash again and again and again until he was broken and whimpering in the mud.
“Bit much that,” Baird muttered under his breath.
Two of the soldier’s fellows started forwards though, recognising they were outnumbered and out-intentioned, knew it was barely a token show and when Savage drew his pistol and pointed it at both men, they came no closer and raised their hands.
“We can’t build without mortar.” One of them pleaded.
“A pox on your bloody mortar, find something else to do.” Savage thrust the pistol home but still looked more than threatening with a mere crop. There was something else about him too, that he might snap at the slightest provocation, and neither man so much as threatened to act in retribution for their prostrate friend. “It just so happens that one day, maybe even as soon as next week, I’ll be returning along this very road and when I do, I expect to find you bastards doing your bloody job and that me and mine will be safe and protected, you understand?” Savage’s words were sporadically punctuated by that strange whistling as the trapped air was squeezed out through the gap where his tooth was meant to be.
