The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 4)

by Luke Duffy

  He reached the top. Without the cliffs to act as a buffer, the wind was much stronger on the high-ground and bitterly cold. The wintery sea air bit through his clothing and clawed at his skin, but he barely noticed it as he moved forward and dropped into cover behind an ancient looking dry stone wall.

  A few buildings, neglected and rundown with their roofs collapsing inwards and their windows smashed sat abandoned, slowly becoming covered with weeds and mould. The track running through the small hamlet was overgrown by the long dune grass that flourished on either side, almost completely smothering it to the point that in many places it was impossible to distinguish between the path and the verge. It was clear that there had been no one in the area for a long time.

  Moving forward he followed the track towards the south. He had deliberately chosen to dock on the north of the island so that he could check for signs of other inhabitants along the way, and hopefully giving him a better indication of what to expect once he reached his target. He walked alone, buffered by the wind and harassed by an occasional gull. The place seemed desolate with very little in the way of trees. Anything growing higher than just a metre would find it almost impossible to live there. The strong winds blowing in from the sea rarely let up, even during the summer months.

  It did not take long before he had travelled across most of the island and was in his intended location from where he would conduct his over-watch. It was more or less the highest point of land on the island and gave him a clear view of the ground in all directions as well as the coastal approaches behind him. Ahead of him and far off in the distance he could see the mainland and the narrow stretch of water that separated the island from the rest of the country. Behind him was nothing but the grey line of the sea and the equally dull and dreary horizon.

  He climbed down into a natural dip in the ground and pulled out his binoculars, focussing in on the large house that was approximately a kilometre away and nestled in the low-ground, close to the coastal road that ran around the circumference of the island. The house looked almost exactly as he remembered.

  It was a large and sturdy looking building, solidly constructed and able to withstand years of gale winds and storms that relentlessly battered against its walls and windows. The outer walls were less bright now, the white-wash paint fading and becoming more of a pale and dirty grey. The stone wall surrounding the building remained, but through his binoculars Stan could see that the once green and blossoming garden was no longer as well manicured as it had once been.

  There were other structures there too. In the past, there had only been the house, sitting alone on the southern tip of the island and a picture of solitude and strength against the sea and the unrelenting wind. Now there were other buildings all around the house. Some were prefabricated cabins and others were merely canvas tents. He could see that there had been a few attempts at erecting some buildings that would be more solid and enduring, but with the lack of resources on the island they were little more than shacks, and clearly needing constant repair and maintenance to prevent them from blowing away.

  He panned his binoculars to the left and then to the right. There was no sign of movement, but there were indications of life everywhere he looked. There was steam drifting up from the tents and shacks, washing lines laden with wet clothing that fluttered in the wind, and fresh and well-worn tracks leading between each dwelling and criss-crossing the entire area. There were no people visible, but they were there. Of that much he was certain.

  He wondered if they had somehow detected him and were now hiding behind cover, waiting for him to expose himself before they fired. He considered crawling back and approaching from another angle, but then decided that it would make no difference. Whether they had already seen him or not, they would soon be fully aware of his presence when he felt it was time to begin his advance.

  Stan looked closer, scrutinising the entire camp and searching for any sign of defences or early warning systems. No matter how well placed and camouflaged they were, there would always be some trace of sentry and fire positions. There were none. He searched again and again, but could see no hint of an outer perimeter. The people living there obviously felt secure and saw no need for such things. There would undoubtedly be weapons, but it was evident that they did not feel the necessity to keep them close and ready at all times.

  It was a concept that was completely alien to Stan. Even aboard the ferry and safe in the knowledge that the infected were miles away, separated from them by the sea, he remained armed at all times with his weapons in immaculate order.

  “They’re not expecting any dramas, that’s for sure,” Stan whispered to himself.

  No matter where he was or how long it had been without incident, he himself would have always ensured that security measures were in place. However, that was his mind-set, and he had come to understand that even now, not everyone was capable of thinking in the way that a soldier does. For a moment he wondered whether he would ever be able to shake off a life time of caution and habit.

  “Bollocks to it,” he grunted, climbing to his feet and tucking away his equipment. “Time to move.”

  There was once a time when Stan could stare at a target for days, even weeks if necessary. He would watch until he had studied the ground and the people to the point that he knew everything about them, taking in every detail of the lay of the land and the habits of men and women occupying it. However, he seemed to be suddenly low on patience, and after only an hour he began to walk down the hill and headed directly towards the large white house.

  He did not bother to look for or follow any tracks, choosing instead to take the shortest possible route and move across the open, bumpy ground that threatened to send him falling over with every step. The small undulating ridges and troughs topped with thick tufts of grass were always difficult to negotiate. During his days in the army they had referred to that sort of terrain as ‘babies’ heads’, and carrying heavy loads while trying to remain upright had always proven to be a frustrating and very often, painful challenge.

  As he reached to within a few hundred metres, Stan began to see people emerging from the large house. More of them spilled out through the huge front door and began to gather in the garden in small groups or headed out through the gate and towards the tents and shacks. He heard voices drifting towards him on the wind, snippets of words and the unmistakable sound of laughter. There were men, women, and children there. They sounded happy, relaxed, and confident that this day would be no different from the previous, and that their lives would continue uninterrupted.

  At first Stan hesitated, impulsively wanting to drop into cover and raise his rifle. He fought his instincts and remained upright while keeping his rifle at his side and pointed into the dirt at his feet. None of the people had noticed him descending the hill. They were sure of their safety and isolation and seemed to pay very little attention to the world around them. He continued forward with his attention focussed on the nearest of the shacks and shelters as he reached the foot of the hill.

  He came to a small wire fence, and once he had stepped over it, he was inside their camp. In front of him was the rear flap of a large canvas tent; the same sort that he had spent many a night under during his years in the army. The sides billowed in the wind and made dull thwacking noises as they pulled against their lashes. He stepped around and over the ropes that pinned the tent to the ground, reaching the front of the shelter and stepping out onto the muddy track that was carpeted with old planks of wood and large stepping stones to help prevent the area from becoming a quagmire. He looked to his left and right, checking that no one was approaching from his flanks before stepping forward and into the main street of the medieval style village.

  Chickens ran between the dwellings, chasing one another through the mud while cats and dogs that looked well fed and bored lay snoozing in the open air. The animals paid him virtually no attention as he continued along the squelching path. One of the dogs raised its head for a moment and let out a hi
gh-pitched whine that was almost inaudible to the human ear. Stan looked back at it, expecting it to leap towards him or at least bark a warning. Instead, it lay its head back down upon the blanket that it was sprawled out upon, disinterested and unthreatened by the new arrival.

  It was something that made Stan feel almost uneasy. The dogs that they came into contact with on the mainland were never so casual. They travelled and hunted in packs, and seeing a living human being would be an opportunity that they rarely passed up on. Food was scarce, and humans were a much easier target than most other animals. If a person was unarmed and cornered by a hungry pack, they would stand very little chance at survival. To now see a dog pay him virtually no interest was confusing to say the least.

  He continued to walk, and by now he was in the centre of the camp. There were people ahead of him slowly making their way towards their own homes after exiting the house. Some of them noticed him and stopped. They stood and stared, but no one challenged him. They eyed his weapons and looked to one another questioningly, but not a single soul stepped forward.

  Stan remained focussed upon the house as he walked, but remained fully aware of what was happening around him. The people ahead of him stepped out of his path and gave him a wide birth before closing in on his flanks and rear. They were clearly worried but curious to who he was and where he had suddenly appeared from. He could hear them whispering but still, no one attempted to stop him or even raise an alarm. Stan watched them, but saw that there was no one amongst them that posed any sort of threat. It was even clear that there was no one willing to ask him who he was or where he was going.

  He reached the gate of the house and paused before opening it. He glanced back over his shoulder at the people who were standing around him and staring back with anxious and probing expressions. He looked at the children that were huddled close to their parents and wanting to ask the obvious questions about the scary looking man who had appeared on the island. He was tempted to say something, but had no idea what. He also knew that anything he said at that moment would sound frightening in his harsh voice and would only be backed up and cemented by his cold, unflinching stare.

  He turned to continue through the gate but stopped. She was there, standing at the door to the house, and looking back at him. Their eyes locked onto one another, and for what seemed a long time they stood watching each other in complete silence while the people around them held their breath and waited.

  She had hardly changed. Her thick, wavy blonde hair remained cut in the same style, billowing out from her head just as it had done all those years ago, and once again reminding him of Farrah Fawcett. Her soft face glowed in the same way he remembered, and her eyes still held the same penetrating, but warming glare that had always remained perfectly vivid in his memories of her. It had been many years, but time had been kind to her. He could see that clearly. Her white and red patterned dress fluttered at the bottom as the wind snatched at it, but remained pinched at the waist and flattered her natural shape. She took a hesitant step forward from the doorway, studying him as he remained standing at the gate and looking back at her.

  Stan straightened up, feeling that he should at least make the effort to look like less of a predator or a beggar. His heart was beating hard, and a feeling that he had not experienced in many years was surging through his body. His stomach felt tight, his throat was dry, and his legs did not feel as though they would support him for any prolonged period of time. He was nervous. It was an emotion that was as unfamiliar to him as fear, but nevertheless he recognised it for what it was.

  Julia began to walk towards him as the people that were gathered all around them began inching closer and looked on in anticipation. As she reached half way along the path another figure appeared in the doorway behind her. A young man, tall and dark haired, stood watching her with concern as she approached the bedraggled stranger.

  As she drew closer she smiled. It was a smile that radiated heat, causing Stan’s skin to flush and his core to noticeably warm and forced his heart to thump even harder.

  She stopped just in front of him on the opposite side of the gate and stared deep into his eyes without saying a word. Her smile remained, and when she reached out and took Stan’s hand in her own, he felt his knees judder. Her skin was soft, clean, and warm. He had not felt any of those things for so long that to suddenly experience them was a shock to his system.

  He wondered how he must look to her. His thick beard covered almost all of his face. Years of grime was engrained into his flesh, and his clothing was covered in all kinds of filth, including blood. Yet rather than looking at him with horror and revulsion, she showed nothing but tenderness and warmth.

  “You look tired,” she said in her familiar soft tones.

  The sound of her voice almost bowled him over, and his head began to spin. He was unsure of what he had expected, but to suddenly hear her voice after all those years was like a lightning bolt ripping its way through his body.

  “I am,” he croaked in a voice that sounded alien even to himself.

  “I knew you’d come back, Stan. I don’t know how, but I knew you were out there and alive, and that you would one day come back here.”

  Emotions were growing inside of him. Feelings that he had not experienced for so long that he now felt as though he was about to explode. They threatened to overwhelm him and destroy him from within. The strongest of them all was the one that hurt him the most. It was shame. He felt ashamed for what he had done all those years ago. He had abandoned her and ran back to the army. For years he had done well to fight his feelings and push them aside whenever they threatened to surface, but now he could no longer contain or hide them.

  “I’m sorry, Julia,” he said, his voice a mere shadow of its former gruffness. “I should never have left, and I’m sorry.”

  “You did what was right for you and followed what you knew best. I want you to know that I was never angry with you, Stan. You were just not ready, is all. I knew that, and I knew that when you were ready you would come back.” Her smile broadened as she reached forward and gently pulled open the gate. “And here you are.”

  He made to step through but hesitated, looking from Julie and then to the man who was still standing at the door and watching them intently. He glanced down at his weapons and began to feel as though he should not be there, as though he was somehow soiling the place with his presence.

  “Please come in,” she urged him when she saw his uncertainty. “We both have a lot to catch up on.”

  Stan looked at her, and his wavering feelings seemed to dissipate from his body. Her smile was one of genuine warmth and care. There was no judgement in her eyes, and her voice possessed no undertones of scrutiny. As he had always remembered, Julia held no reservations towards him, and even now, accepted him as the man he was.

  “Is that…?” he asked, nodding towards the young man but unable to finish his sentence.

  “Yes,” she nodded, glancing back over her shoulder and then back at Stan with a broadening smile that was filled with pride. “That’s Henry… your son. He’s been waiting for you.”

  She began to lead him along the path while lightly holding on to his hand. He could have turned away at any time, but he did not. His natural suspicion and his instincts to run or fight were silent. They seemed to have dissolved completely, leaving him to fend for himself and come to his own conclusions without them. He was confused at first, but as Julia stopped and turned to face him, taking both of his hands in her own and watching his eyes, Stan blinked and then smiled back at her.

  “You’re home now,” she whispered.

  Home… His smile grew as they turned and continued along the path towards the house.

  END

  Read on for a free sample of Stage 3: A Zombie Apocalypse Novel

  CHAPTER I

  The droning was incessant. It came up from the floor, hummed through the seat and reverberated through his body like a shiver. Mason snapped awake, kept his eyes tightly clos
ed, and muttered a silent curse.

  Damn! Still in the air……

  While he was asleep, someone had nestled a red-hot poker behind his eyes and wrapped a clamp around his head. It was that damned engine vibration! How the hell did people abide that ceaseless droning? No wonder his skull felt like it was coming apart.

  Well, okay, maybe there was more to it than that, he admitted sheepishly, the taste of scotch still strong in his mouth.

  He could hear music, too. How the hell was there music? Oh right. His iPod. He'd turned it on and slipped in the earbuds to circumvent any further tedious dialogue with Fatty McLardass next door. Then, in case the big guy didn't get the message, he'd reclined his seat and closed his eyes. Eventually, the charade became real, and he'd actually fallen asleep. That last part was sheer bonus. He hadn't been sure how he'd survive another sixteen hour flight across the Pacific in a plane stuffed with humans, but apparently he'd found the solution; copious amounts of alcohol, a couple of Dramamine, and a generous helping of Pink Floyd.

  Should have gone business class, he pondered idly to himself. Becks would have liked that……

  And with that single errant thought, a flood of emotions poured into his aching brain. Grief. Loss. Betrayal. An abiding anger bordering on outright hostility.

  At last, he felt a cramping in his legs that brought his mind back to the present. One of his feet was twisted around the other and sending shooting pains into his calf. Not wanting to let his neighbor know that he was awake, he uttered a vague somniferous grunt and shifted casually in his seat. Better now. Blood flow restored and no one the wiser. And better yet, the searing pain in his head superseded the growing pins and needles accompanying the return of circulation.