The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3)

by Luke Duffy

  Werner sat up and retrieved his hat from the flooded deck, placing it back on top of his head and pushing the peak back up and away from his face. He blew out a long stream of air from between his teeth, creating a low whistle. He nodded his thanks to the chief and turned to the pasty helmsman. The captain knew that it was not the seaman’s fault that the depth in that particular patch of sea had been shortened due to a pile of rock poking up from the seabed. However, Werner could not completely contain his annoyance for the near fatal accident and glared at the shrinking helmsman.

  “Stop these leaks and get me a damage report. Check the bow compartments, Chief,” Werner ordered, taking control of his boat and crew.

  As the chief raced off towards the front of the boat, the sailors began working feverishly to stem the flow of water that was rapidly filling the bilges. Within minutes, the repairs were completed with all the burst valves sealed and the gushing water stopped. The speed at which the crew had the boat watertight and on an even keel again was a testament to their expertise and the leadership of their captain. Stan and his men could do very little to help and sat watching nervously as the sailors brought the old U-boat back under their control. The chief returned a short while later and reported his findings to the captain. Luckily, there had been no serious damage done, and all leaks had been fixed.

  Above them, the sound of fast turning screws began to reverberate through the water and ring against the hull. The enemy ships were racing towards the last known location of the submarine. Everyone in the U-boat froze to the spot and turned their sweat and sea water sodden faces towards the network of pipes, conduits, and wires running along the vaulted ceiling, staring through the hull and imagining what was happening up on the surface. The propellers, swishing through the water at speed, created a foreboding sound that grew louder by the second, heralding the approach of the enemy vessels and an impending attack. Everyone on board held their breath, waiting for orders and with their eyes fixed on the curve of the inner hull above their heads. A few crew members nervously glanced at their captain.

  “Okay, Chief,” Werner sighed, looking calm and stepping across towards him. He patted the terrified looking helmsman on the shoulder, reassuring him and acknowledging that the accident had not been his fault. “Both engines ahead slow. Rig for silent running and come right twenty degrees.”

  “Silence on board,” the chief ordered. The order was then quickly passed along in a whisper, from one man to the next throughout the length of the hull, ensuring that everyone knew to remain quiet. “Make revolutions for four knots.”

  The whine of the electric motors faded and the boat slowed to a crawl, managing just four knots as it drifted along close to the bottom of the Channel and heading away from their hunters. Everyone on board remained still and silent, manning their posts and not daring to move so much as a muscle. By now, the rapid swish of turning screws and hammering growl of engines above them was almost deafening, sounding as though they were about to come bursting through the outer hull.

  Stan and his men sat in silence, pale and sweating as they stared up at the ceiling. Their fate was now in the hands of Captain Werner, and it was his skill in which they now had to place all their trust. Stan watched him for a moment. The old seaman looked relaxed and confident as he stood beside the chief, whispering his commands, and occasionally glancing up at the ceiling or giving an encouraging smile to one of his crew. The man appeared as though he was just carrying out a training drill.

  “We’ll see how slippery we can be, twisting and turning for a bit,” Werner said in a low voice when he noticed Stan watching him. “We’ll get a little more distance and some depth, and then we’ll bottom her out.”

  Stan, sitting with his back against the ladder leading up into the conning tower, looked back at him, bewildered.

  “We’ll lie on the bottom and play dead,” the chief clarified.

  “There’s a lot of wrecks in this area, so as long as they don’t look too closely, we may just get away with it,” Werner added.

  Stan nodded and turned to look at Taff. The Welshman was standing close to the periscope housing, hugging the tube with both hands and staring up at the ceiling. He looked down at his team commander, his eyes filled with anxiety and mixing with the sadness that was clearly tugging heavily at his heart. Taff had been good friends with Danny despite their endless bickering. It was times like now, during inactivity, that the loss of another two team members along with Emily, Samantha and William, would begin to sink in and have a devastating impact on the men that were left. However, there was nothing that Stan could do to occupy them with other thoughts. They needed to stay still and quiet.

  Everything seemed to be moving slowly. The atmosphere within the hull was getting hotter, and the air was becoming stale. It seemed more cramped now and some of the soldiers, unused to the conditions, were already showing signs of discomfort and claustrophobia. Their ashen faces glistened with perspiration, and their glowing eyes in the semi darkness betrayed their apprehension. Everything had been shut down to save noise, including the bilge pumps and air filtering systems. Only the motors giving off a low hum remained operating in order to turn the propellers. On the surface, the hunters continued to circle while the U-boat slowly crept away in silence.

  “Amateurs,” Werner whispered to his chief. “They’re tear-arsing around up there and haven’t once considered to stop and have a listen.”

  “Doesn’t make sense to me, Captain,” he replied, shaking his head with confusion. “Why haven’t they used their sonar to look for us?”

  Werner shrugged. He was struggling to work it out himself. By now, they should have been nothing more than a flooded and twisted ruin, lying on the seabed. Modern naval vessels should have no problem at all detecting a seventy year old submarine and swiftly dealing with it. It would be almost like dropping a rock onto a static target from just a few centimetres height for a modern and properly equipped Royal Navy Frigate. Werner’s eyes suddenly bulged and he clasp his hand over the shoulder of the chief.

  “The poor bastards,” he whispered with mock sympathy. “They’ve got no sonar or detection system, or they don’t have anyone who knows how to operate it. Either way, they’re just racing around in circles up there, hoping we’ll stick our heads up.”

  After another command, the submarine turned to the left and continued its slow journey, creeping further away at a snail’s pace. Everyone inside listened to the sounds of the ships above. They were still loud enough to be heard clearly, but it was apparent that they were no longer directly beneath the scouring vessels. The crew listened as with each minute the sounds of the ships grew slightly fainter. Inside the U-boat, all that could be heard was the low drone of the electric engines, the constant drip of water as the drops splashed against the metal surfaces, and the nervous heavy breathing of the men on board.

  “They’re moving away from us,” Werner mumbled to no one in particular as he remained staring up at the ceiling. “Turn to heading two-six-zero.”

  The submarine was now headed west along the English Channel, away from the island and their hunters. However, they were also headed directly for the remaining ships of the attacking fleet. Werner was determined to push as far as he could from the dive site.

  “Depth sixty metres, Captain. Nearest surface contact, one-four-zero degrees, and moving away.” a crew member from the sound room hissed after another anxious thirty minutes.

  Werner stepped forward and grunted as he eyed the depth gauge. He raised his face and listened with squinted eyes and his ear cocked to the ceiling. He remained quiet for a moment, judging the position and direction of the two hunters. He turned to Stan and smiled fiendishly, bearing his white shining teeth from behind his thick beard.

  “Drop us down, Chief. Both engines stop.”

  A few minutes later and forward propulsion finally ceased as the momentum of the boat halted against the current. She slowly drifted downwards on an even keel and towards the seabed. A sho
rt time later and there was a dull clang as the hull made gentle contact with the sandy bottom. The boat rocked and shifted as it settled into place, eventually coming to a complete rest on the bottom of the English Channel, sixty-five metres beneath the surface.

  “Now what?” Taff hissed from his position around the periscope housing.

  “We wait,” the chief replied with a shrug.

  “Brilliant,” Bull whined. “If we so much as crack a loud fart in this bean tin, they’ll hear us at this depth.”

  For hours they had been sitting on the seabed, dozing and listening, and slowly suffocating in the close atmosphere as the U-boat gently and slowly rocked with the current. Stan and his men had made themselves as comfortable as possible with a few members of the group tip-toeing through the compartments in search of a cooler and more comfortable spot to rest.

  “Do you think Bobby made it?” Taff asked, staring down at his feet as he sat on one of the low bunks.

  Bull was sitting on the floor in the bow compartment. The steel grated deck-plates were cool against his backside and helped keep him from overheating in the humid submarine. He was staring at the wall, unblinking and unseeing as he chewed lazily on a bar of dried meat that one of the crew members had issued to them. He shook his head.

  “I doubt it,” he replied in a low and slurring voice. “I saw little Billy go down. The poor bugger was cut in half by those bastards.”

  “Fucking hell,” Taff grunted, the image of William dying drifting into his mind’s eye, and refusing to budge.

  He looked up and turned his attention to the bunk across from him. Gerry had climbed into the small space a number of hours ago and had not moved since. He lay facing the wall with his back turned to everyone around him. He had not spoken the whole time, and Taff wondered what state of mind he was in.

  “What about him?”

  Bull glanced up and arched his neck, twisting his head so that he could see Gerry curled up on the cot behind him. He turned away and went back to nibbling at the dried jerky.

  “He’s in shock. I don’t think he’s been so close to those things before, and in Newport they were all over us like scabs on a Sunderland whore’s cunt. Just leave him to it for a while. Let him rest.” Bull looked up at Taff, his tired eyes indicating that he was not particularly interested in making any further conversation. “Besides, I’m not playing nursemaid for him.”

  It was almost dark when the captain decided that they had waited for long enough. As most of the team slept or stared at nothing, he gave orders for the auxiliary pumps and air filters to be switched on. They could hear the sounds of the enemy ships in the distance, and Werner wanted to test and see if they would be noticed. For twenty minutes they waited, listening to see if anyone turned and approached them. If they did, Werner would order the pumps to be switched off immediately. No one on the surface seemed to notice or even be listening. With a nod of satisfaction, he instructed the chief to raise them from the seabed.

  The hum of the electric motors made everyone cringe, and it seemed impossible that no one would notice the hissing sound as air was pumped back into the ballast tanks. Slowly, the hull worked its way free of the sea floor and the silt that held it stuck. The submarine drifted upwards and shifted to the side as it was buffered by the current. Satisfied that they were clear, the captain turned to the chief and smiled.

  “Remain on silent running, and bring us to heading three-two-zero. We’ll head for the English coast and follow it around in the shallows towards the west. Take us to periscope depth, Chief. I want to have a look.”

  Slowly, and as the daylight faded and gave way to a clear and starry sky, the boat crept away, just fifteen metres beneath the surface.

  20

  There were voices all around him, but they sounded distant and hollow, as though coming to him from within a dream. They rattled against his skull and seemed to cause his brain to convulse within his head. He felt weak and confused as his senses slowly returned to him from the dark swirling pit that had swallowed him up. He groaned with agony, feeling the pain in his chest with each breath. He raised his head and opened his eyes. His lids slowly peeled back as though they were being held together with Velcro. The light filtered in, uncomfortably bright against his retina, making him wince and groan. At first, he could see nothing but a swathe of mottled red, as though a thin crimson curtain had been drawn across his vision. His eyes were filled with dried and crusted blood that had run down from the wound stretching from one side of his scalp to the next. Blinking rapidly, Bobby attempted to clear his blurred vision and focus his hearing.

  “Will he live?”

  “Not sure, sir. He’s sustained multiple injuries and lost quite a lot of blood. At this stage and without the proper equipment, it’s hard to tell.”

  “Okay,” the first voice continued with annoyance. “Will he live for the next few hours, at least?”

  “We’ve patched him up as best we can and stopped the bleeding, for now. So yes, I think he will live, sir.”

  By now, Bobby was able to make out various shapes within the room around him. They were filtering through in light and dark shades of red, but he could now see that there were a number of men in front of him. They moved about, speaking to one another as he slowly came to, but he was not always able to understand the words being spoken. He was hurt, confused, and extremely weak.

  He attempted to move his arms, but they would not comply. They remained fast at his sides. He could feel his fingers moving, but the arms themselves seemed to be completely immobile. Trying again, Bobby flexed his sapped and pain wracked muscles. He grunted and groaned, a stream of thick, dark red mucus spewing from his lips and dripping from his chin. He could taste the iron in his blood as it filled his mouth.

  By now he could feel the restraints that held him tied to the chair as they cut into his flesh. He rolled his head lazily, turning his attention to his hands and seeing the thick plastic ties that were wrapped around his forearms and the steel arms of the chair. As the dried blood was slowly washed away from his eyes, he was able to see the same attention having been paid to his lower limbs. He was bound to the chair, and for the foreseeable future and in his present state, Bobby knew that he would be going nowhere on his own accord.

  “That’s right,” a confirming voice spoke from just a couple of metres away. “You’re not going anywhere, son. We know who you are and that you’re pretty dangerous. It would be silly of us to give you the run of the mill, wouldn’t it?”

  Bobby groaned and raised his head. The man’s words echoed, rising in pitch and volume as his mind continued with its struggle to come around. He could remember nothing of what had happened or how he had come to be tied to a chair. The last thing that his brain seemed to retain was the vision of driving through a narrow country lane following an ice-cream van. The memory confused him, and he was unsure whether or not reality was playing tricks on him. Again, he pulled at his restraints, but he did not have the strength for any sustained effort against the tightly fastened plastic ties. He slumped into his chair, gasping with agony from the wound in his chest.

  “Take it easy,” the voice in front of him continued in a calming manner. “You’ve taken quite a beating, and we don’t want you opening up all those holes again, do we?”

  Bobby turned to him and stared at the faint red figure that was standing in front of where he was sitting. He coughed, his body convulsing as he did so, and a spray of blood gushing out from his mouth.

  “Who are you?” he asked, weakly.

  The man in front of him shifted in his chair, making himself comfortable as though he intended to be there for a while.

  “Never mind that. More to the point, who are you?”

  For a fleeting moment, Bobby struggled to remember his own name. It was there, inside his head, but his brain was not yet fully connected to his mouth. He hesitated, staring at the man ahead of him. The one thing that was clear to him was that he was in serious trouble, both from his condition, a
nd from the menacing figures standing around him. He sensed the hostility in the atmosphere even though no aggressive words or tones had yet been spoken. His survival instincts were kicking in, much quicker than his normal state of mind. His subconscious recognised and understood that he was in danger, but injured and bound to the chair he was helpless to do anything about it.

  “Well?” the voice repeated. “What is your name?”

  A rueful smile stretched across Bobby’s lips, and soon turned into an inhuman grin that bared his blood-stained teeth.

  “Sharon Clements,” Bobby replied with a strained chuckle.

  “Ah, you’re a tough guy, and a funny one at that.”

  The man turned to someone standing behind him out of Bobby’s blood obstructed vision. There were a number of clicking sounds as the interrogator snapped his fingers, and a moment later Bobby’s head was thrust back. He instinctively screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, expecting the beatings to begin. The blows did not arrive as expected. Instead, he felt the cool and refreshing touch of water splashing over his face. It was definitely not a form of torture; there was not enough fluid gushing over his features to restrict his breathing for that. A short while later and the flow of liquid stopped. A soft and clean smelling towel was then placed over his face as one of his captors began to wipe the blood away from his eyes. In his present condition, the sensation of the water against his skin and having the dried blood removed from his vision and nasal passages felt like a spa treatment.

  Once completed, the hand holding his head back released its grip, and Bobby once again raised his head so that he could see his surroundings. The simple act of clearing his eyes seemed to have somewhat revitalised him. His mind seemed clearer, and his thoughts were beginning to fall into place.

  Blinking the last of the blood stained water away, he focussed on the man sitting in the chair directly in front of him. On his shoulders he wore the rank tabs of a general. He was slender and almost feeble looking, and it was hard to imagine him ever having done anything physical in his life. However, his eyes and his bearing clearly commanded respect from those around him. Bobby could tell that the man in front of him was someone to be feared, and although his face seemed placid and calm at that moment, his unblinking eyes held a darkness that was plain to see and impossible to hide. They stared back at him like the spy-holes of hell. Bobby knew that the niceties would not continue indefinitely.