Zombie Castle Series (Book 4): ZC Four

by Harris, Chris

  Not picked to go, I watched the small convoy roar out of the castle, the urgency of the moment not lost on the drivers, who were pushing the vehicles as fast as they could go.

  Looking at the untidy mountain of goods, I gave a tired shrug and said to the group of bystanders around me, “Shall we start to make sense of this lot?”

  Keeping the volume up on our radios so we could keep track of any progress, we began organising and stacking the goods into a semblance of order. Both army lorries, the crane lorry and Woody’s Defender still stood where we’d left them earlier, all fully loaded with the rest of what we’d gathered. It represented a huge quantity of supplies and would probably take days to properly sort, catalogue and store in the right place. But doing what we were doing took our minds off our situation and stopped us dwelling on what had happened today.

  None too distant gunfire caused us to pause and stare at each other. Some of us were once again out there facing danger, this time on a mission to get the supplies needed to save the life of another of our group. We had to trust they would keep themselves safe. As Steve had told those going on the mission, there was no time for subtlety on this one. Firepower, speed and maximum aggression was what was required to ensure its success and by the sound of the firing we could hear, that was what they were doing.

  Eventually, we got a call through the radio of, “On way back. We’ve got what we need.” That was all we needed to hear to stop what we were doing and gather, ready to help them when they arrived.

  The tractor, driven by Shawn and closely followed by the armoured car, raced through the barbican and skidded to a stop, both vehicles cutting a long furrow in the grass of the courtyard as their wheels locked.

  Eddy swung the back door of the trailer open and Chet, not waiting for the ramp to be lowered, jumped down and raced inside, carrying two full bags. When I’d helped lower the portcullis and outer and inner gates, I too went into the Great Hall to see what help I could offer.

  Marc had been moved to the dining room, where we had the radio set up, and was lying on a camp bed surrounded by concerned people. His pallor had changed to a deathly grey colour and he did not look in good shape. Becky and Steve were sorting through the bags Chet had brought inside and were forming small piles of items.

  I could overhear Becky as she talked to Steve. She’d been in communication with the surgeon when she could see Marc’s condition deteriorating. What he needed was an immediate blood transfusion to replace all that he had lost. The advice given was that he needed to be stabilised before they attempted to cauterise the wound, otherwise the shock of the procedure could kill him.

  I knew I was an O blood type, which from my limited medical knowledge, meant my blood was suitable for all blood types.

  “Becky,” I called to get her attention, “I’m an O blood type, remember. Doesn’t that mean I can give blood to anyone?”

  She snapped back, too preoccupied to even look up at me or have the time for pleasantries.

  “Yes. Now sit down and you’ll be the first I’ll get blood from.” She then called out to the room, “Can someone go around and ask if people know what blood type they are. Once I can test Marc’s, I’ll let them know if they’re needed.”

  Ten minutes later, Becky finished another call to the surgeon, who seemed to be permanently on hand via the radio to offer whatever assistance and advice he could. I sat in a chair with my arm held out as Becky tied a strap around it. When the vein started to show, she held a needle ready with a valve on it.

  I could see her hands shaking and the look of intense concentration on her face as she prepared herself.

  “It’s okay, darling,” I said calmly. “You can do this. Now take a deep breath and take a moment to calm down. The way your hands are shaking, you’ll turn me into a pincushion before you find my vein.”

  My poor attempt at humour did calm her down, though, and on the second attempt and with a few yelps of pain from me, she’d inserted the needle deep into my vein. Reaching for a tube with a bag at the end of it, she attached it to the valve and when she turned it, to a look of surprised triumph on her face, my blood started flowing down the tube and into the bag. Bob, also an O blood type, sat next to me with his sleeve rolled up and ready.

  Steve had managed to insert a needle into a vein in Marc’s arm, albeit with some difficulty, and as soon as the bag attached to me was full, he moved it over to Marc, and with Charles the vicar holding the bag in the air, he fixed it to the needle. We all sighed with relief as we saw the blood flowing down the tube and into Marc. It is not a quick process to transfuse blood, but eventually and after more donations from volunteers with the right blood match, Marc’s pallor had faded and colour was returning to his face.

  After confirmation from the surgeon about which of the many vials from the chemist was the right one to use, Becky used a hypodermic syringe to pump Marc full of painkillers and antibiotics.

  The bad news was that as Marc received more blood, his wound began bleeding again, soaking the bandages that were tightly bound around his stump. We were going to have to cauterise the wound.

  Becky once again consulted with the Surgeon about how to do it. Basically, what we needed to do was to heat up something and press it against the wound. The main thing was not to have the item too hot and only press it briefly against the wound, so not to damage any living flesh around it.

  Insisting she wanted to perform the procedure, she asked someone to bring her one of the camping stoves and for one of us to find a suitable utensil or tool.

  A short time later and with a few of us standing ready to hold Marc still, she held over the flame of the stove an old metal smoothing iron we’d found on display in one of the rooms, and heated it up. The second she nodded to us to get ready, we held his body down and she raised the iron shimmering with heat, and pressed it against the exposed blood-soaked stump of his arm that Steve held firmly with both hands.

  The wound sizzled, filling our nostrils with the gag-inducing smell of burning flesh. Marc, still unconscious, writhed and bucked against the intense pain his brain must have been registering. Twice more she heated up the iron and pressed it against the wound, and each time Marc’s movements became less frenetic as his body shut down, protecting him from further agony. Eventually, after studying the arm, she let the iron drop to the floor and stood back, satisfied she had done enough to stop the bleeding. Steve then coated the stump with an antiseptic ointment and wrapped it tightly in fresh layers of clean bandages.

  Becky stood silently, staring at Marc’s unconscious body. The emotion of what she had just had to do etched on her face, she said quietly, “I think we’ve done all we can do. Time is the only thing we can give him now.”

  Seeing the look on her face and knowing what she needed, I approached her and taking hold of her hand, led her outside, away from the cloying smell of burnt flesh and into the fresh air.

  Understanding that she needed to be away from people, I guided her across the grass of the courtyard away from the main building, before enveloping her in a hug. “You did a fantastic job, my love. Well done, darling.” I whispered in her ear. “I don’t think anyone could have done a better job.”

  Resting her head against my chest tiredly, she replied, “I was shitting myself, to be fair. I was treating him from the start and it just didn’t seem fair to take a step back and get someone else to take over. But the smell of the iron against his flesh! It took all I had not to drop it and run away.” As the adrenaline drained from her system, she began crying and I hugged her tighter. Saying nothing, I stood hugging her, just giving her the time to let it all out.

  Many long minutes later, she slowly began to recover. I still kept hugging her until she gently pushed me away, kissed me and said, “Thank you, I needed that. Now let’s go back and see how he’s doing.”

  We were still fifty-two and two dogs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marc was still unconscious. Even though he still looked deathly pale, I
could see some colour had returned to his face, which I took to be a good sign.

  He was surrounded by a team of carers who were keeping him under constant observation, so there was little that Becky or I could do to help without getting in the way. Gratefully taking two mugs of tea that were handed to me and passing one to Becky, we joined the throng of concerned, chatting adults and children who were gathering in the Great Hall.

  When Steve saw Becky, he walked over and thanked her for everything she had done. “The surgeon is very impressed with how you handled the situation, Becky,” he said with a smile. “You’ve no doubt saved his life.”

  Becky looked sad again. “But he has to live with half an arm now. His last words were begging for us to kill him so he could re-join his wife and son. I think when he wakes up and begins to comprehend what’s happened to him and how his life will change because of this, we might have to work hard to enable him to see the positives and not just the negatives of his future.”

  Steve nodded soberly. “I know. I’ve spent time with soldiers who’ve suffered many life-altering injuries and you’re right. We’ll have to make him understand that being alive is better than the alternative and that he can still be a valuable member of our community. He may not be able to wield his pike anymore, but he can still contribute to our survival in some way.” He looked around the room. “There aren’t many of us left and we’re going to need every one of us if we’re going to get through this.”

  Changing the subject, I glanced at my watch. “Talking about being useful, we’ve still got a few hours of daylight left and a mountain of stuff to sort through. Shouldn’t we get on with sorting it?”

  Steve nodded. “Just as you walked in, the sergeants were thinking along the same lines as well. There’s no point us all mooching about brooding and a bit of manual work will help take everyone’s mind off what’s happened.”

  At the thought of doing something useful, he perked up and slapped me on the back, saying, “Shall we get on with it then!”

  Watched over by the sentries patrolling the walls, everyone else who wasn’t involved with caring for Marc or Sarah began the monumental task of sorting through everything we’d scavenged today. Rooms had already been designated as either food storage, sundry storage or as an armoury. First, we cleared the pile of hastily unloaded goods that we had thrown from the vehicles needed to go and get Marc’s urgent medical supplies. All that was sorted and stacked in the relevant rooms under the guidance of a few who were cataloguing what we’d collected. The other vehicles were then backed up one at a time to the main doors and unloaded, until exhaustion took us over. And the need to eat the deliciously smelling food that was drifting from the kitchen made us call it a day.

  Later that evening, we sat in the Great Hall by the flickering light of a few candles and lanterns. Marc, under the guidance of the surgeon, was being sedated and had not regained consciousness yet. After considering the reports of his temperature and vital signs, the doctor informed us that he was doing as well as could be expected. Marc now lay on a bed we had set up in the dining room and was being watched over by a rotating list of volunteer nurses, of whom Jamie was the most ardent.

  Steve, who had been on the radio to the admiral, joined us after helping himself to a glass of whisky from a bottle that never seemed far from Willie. He updated us on the day’s progress made by the fleet sheltering in the Solent.

  “They’re still waiting for two more Royal Navy ships to arrive and then every known asset they have will be there.” He chuckled. “Apparently, the Solent is getting a bit crowded and looking like a fleet review with all the shipping gathering and small crafts trying to keep out of their way.” He looked at the questioning faces staring at him. “Oh, Sorry. You know a fleet review? Like in the old days when Navies gathered all their ships together in a bit of a ‘don’t fuck with us’ show of strength. But I imagine the mass of ships and small boats filling it is a bit more disorderly than the precisely lined-up rows of huge, great battleships I remember from photos of the old days.

  “Anyway, I digress,” he admonished himself and continued. “They’re busy cataloguing all the supplies that are available from the manifests of the container and cargo ships that have also dropped anchor around them. A lot of it is useless junk and they’re coming up with a plan to use those containers. If they can gain a foothold on the right dock and offload them using dockside cranes to form a barricade, they’re hoping to be able to keep the zombies away so they can gain access to shore-based fuel reserves.” He paused again. “Anyway, they’re bandying around a lot of theories and ideas and not got up to much yet. Apart from sending helicopters, that is, now they have them, and patrols to search for any safe anchorages and signs of survivors along the south coast.”

  Pausing to sip from his whisky, he savoured it for a few seconds before continuing. “The helicopters are making the task a lot easier. The Scilly Isles are still looking the favourite place to head to, and following a helicopter overflight today, they’re dispatching a few patrol craft to investigate further.”

  I interrupted him when a thought came into my head.

  “Is there anything they want us to do here or are we just to make this place as secure as possible, hunker down and wait to see what happens?” Smiling humourlessly, I added, “To be fair, after today, I’m all for doing that.”

  Steve smiled along with everyone else at my attempt at levity. “They haven’t asked anything of us. They know what we’ve achieved, but also know what we’ve been through and what a hell of a day we’ve just had.

  I think they realise they don’t need to worry about us for the moment and as we’re so are far away from any area they’re currently looking at, there’s no need for us to do anything.” He paused to sip at his drink again. “It’ll most likely change when they turn their thoughts to the mainland. So yes, Tom, I think the best thing for us to do is to hunker down and secure our position.”

  He looked around at all of us.

  “But I have a feeling that when the time is right, this place will become a springboard for future operations. Even though we’ve got enough food, weapons and other supplies for our own needs for probably quite some time, I think that we also have an obligation to gather as much as we can for others in the future. As long as we can do it without exposing ourselves to an unnecessary level of risk, that is.”

  He looked serious as he continued. “I made a promise to myself that I would do my utmost never to lose any more men under my command.” He held his hands up and glanced at Maud. “And I know you’re not under my command, as we all know who really is in charge around here.” He waited for the chuckles to subside as Maud turned red. Willie put his arm around her and gave her a hug and a quick peck on the cheek. “When we go beyond our walls again, as you all know we must, then we take no risks. Not even the smallest one because as today has proved, you never know when shit will happen.”

  Most nodded in agreement or sat silently thinking about what he had said and the dangers that lay just beyond the walls of our castle and what the future would hold.

  Chris broke the silence. “All the talk about helicopters and reconnaissance has got me thinking. Is there an airfield around here?”

  “Why?” I asked, puzzled at the change of direction in the conversation.

  “Well,” he answered, “driving around is all we’ve done so far. Yes, our vehicles keep us safe, but we are limited to how far we can go and how long we can be out there before we push our luck too far. We know we can get as much food as we need, or indeed for anyone else who arrives, by just taking food lorries from the roads and motorways close around here. And that’s not counting what we can get from warehouses and supermarkets. I’m also sure a few more trips to any gun shops in the area will give us enough bullets to last a long time. But if we’re asked to go further afield, then the risk will increase proportionately.” He stopped as if unsure of what he was about to say next. “How about if we could go by air?”

&nbs
p; Everyone looked at him in silence.

  “Chris, are you trying to tell us you can fly a plane?” I eventually stammered in reply, not quite sure if that was what he was implying.

  He shrugged, “Well, not exactly legally. I was learning to fly and was very close to getting my licence when we found out Nicky was pregnant.” He took her hand, smiling at her. “I put it on hold once I suddenly had far more important things to spend my money on. But given the right weather conditions, I can take off and land and navigate myself around reasonably confidently, I suppose. It’s not that difficult, really, you just have to remember procedures and stuff. And on a good day, navigation is relatively easy, even without sat nav, because you can pretty much fly from town to town or landmark to landmark.”

  I sat back, thinking about what he had just said.

  Steve spoke up, “Chris, what planes can you fly and what range do they have?”

  Chris thought for a moment. “It does depend on wind speed, its direction and a host of other factors, but the plane I flew, a Piper Warrior, could fly for about four hours or about five hundred miles, I think, from memory.”

  “So,” Steve replied. “You’re telling me we can reach pretty much anywhere in the UK?”

  “Well, not exactly. Without refuelling, you have to half that as you need to get back as well and allow a margin of error,” he answered with raised eyebrows, not wanting to point out his error in calculation. “But I reckon we could go anywhere within a two-hundred-mile radius of an airfield and we wouldn’t have to worry about skirting controlled airspace or overflying cities, so we could fly in straight lines.”

  I started laughing. “How old are you, Chris?”

  “Thirty. Why?” he replied.

  “Because, when I was about thirty I did exactly the same. It can’t even be called a mid-life crisis, because that’s far too young,” I said grinning. “And you know what? I was just about to qualify when Becky fell pregnant with Stanley, so I gave it up, too. Bloody coincidence or what!” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Do you think it’s a heinous plan by all wives to spoil a man’s fun and stop his dreams of becoming Maverick from Top Gun?”