One by one the group was patted down by a pair of rough, and incredibly large hands. Only once the group had all been given the all-clear did the blinding light disappear, though if it did nothing more than throw them into a second blind state for a few moments.
“My name is Captain Yuri Shuyvarin. I was sent here to command this station. I take it you are the flight we were expecting.” There was something chilling in his words, an undertone that put Paul on edge. He and Yuri had, after a long discussion to see who the leader of each group was, had moved off to one side, away from the others. Both sides were scared.
“Yes, we were attacked at the gate. They killed all of your officers. I’m sorry,” Paul added the last sentence as an afterthought. It was the truth, although the level of relief he felt at the demise was almost at an equal level.
The pair walked further away from the group, and after a while, Yuri turned and shouted to his small group of men. Paul had no idea what they had said, but it sounded important, and then they turned to lead the others away. Paul made no attempt to stop them. Monique and Keisha looked over their shoulders at him, but with a gentle nod of his head, Paul comforted them from across the room, and they too went off into the darkness.
“You are safe here now. We did not want to run the executions anyway, but the government, they are scared. They wanted to show we had nothing to do with the…”
“Zombies,” Paul added.
“Yes, the zombies. It is not normal to be saying this.” The Captain had taken on a much more relaxed manner following the departure of his men. “I am leader, you are leader. We must stay strong for the others. Come, now. We go here. We sit, and talk like men.” With a sweeping gesture of his arm, Yuri pointed to a door that opened onto an area Paul would never have assumed existed in such a place: a library.
The room was small, but the walls were lined with a series of book cases, which were in turn filled with all manner of books. A thick carpet lay underfoot. Music played softly in the background and two deep burgundy leather sofa’s stood facing one another in the center of the room, positioned before a large antique desk. The room was high ceilinged, comprised of the ground and first floor to say the least. It was a strange room, and given the location and the condition of the rest of the camp, it was even more surreal.
“Please, take a seat. Would you like to drink, with me?”
Paul turned his head and saw a large liquor cabinet had been set into the bookcase, hidden behind a panel of fake books; only noticeable once you knew they were there. “Yes, please,” Paul answered in a haze, unsure what to make of everything. For a few moments, he forgot where he was; forgot that the undead had ripped apart his country, that he had killed his family in order to survive, and now, stood surrounded by a new batch of the undead in the deepest, darkest corner of the Russian wilderness.
“This is my special place. I come here to…” He paused, after handing a glass with what Paul had already assumed to be Vodka. Yuri’s eyes were burning red with tears. “I come here to forget about what I have done; to leave this world behind. We got our orders, and we must see them through. I…it was…I apologize to you, for what I have done, and for what I should be doing now. There will be no more death here, besides our own I fear.” Yuri sank into the leather sofa, shrouded in a cloud of confused self-loathing.
“Orders are orders. You couldn’t say no. I understand. Yuri, there is something you need to know. This whole thing is staged. The UK, my country, released this…plague, if you will, upon themselves. They want you all to help hide the bodies, so they can use it as a guilt trip to gain power later on.” Paul was surprised at how relieved he felt to pass the message on.
“How do you know this?” Yuri’s interested had been caught, and he sat forward in the chair, draining his glass in one shot.
Paul looked at him, adjusted his own seating position and likewise, drank is vodka down. “One of the people on my flight, he worked at the place it happened. He knew nothing about it, but he saw it all happen. Then… well, one of the others killed him. She was with the military, and he blew the secret.” Paul hoped that the man would understand. His grasp of English seemed excellent, and his fears were unfounded.
“Is she still here, with you?” There was anger rising in his voice.
“No, she died on the plane, too. We are all victims here. But tell me, how did this happen here? The zombies?” Paul was eager to know, as he doubted the Russians invited the previous arrivals into their personal quarters.
“That is unfortunate. One of our soldiers, Andrei…he committed, how you say, the suicide. He could not live with what we did. We laid his body to rest, waiting for the time to come to bury him. He stood up and attacked us. My men and I survived, but, as you can see, the damage was already done.” Yuri lowered his head, and without speaking refilled both glasses.
Paul took his, but decided against the overwhelming urge to knock the fiery liquid back in one shot again. He had hardly eaten in days, and already felt his head beginning to spin. Yuri however, showed no such restraint. His glass was empty a few seconds after he sat down. A silence fell, and Paul looked around the room. It was just as impressive at the second viewing as it was when he walked through the door.
Paul spoke after a period of silence that he felt was acceptable. “I guess that stops Britain’s master plan.”
“How you mean?” Yuri cocked his head to one side.
“Well, your soldier, Andre.”
“Andrei.”
“Sorry, Andrei. He was not bitten, so that means the virus they created has changed. It affects everybody. Their plan cannot work, because they have infected the whole world. Or will have before long.” Paul sat back; a mixture of emotions running through him at the thought.
“Then we are all damned.” Yuri stared at Paul with cold eyes. Eyes that were filled with a raging torrent of anger and fear that would culminate in a total shutdown of the human condition.
“No, Yuri that is where you are wrong. We are survivors,” Paul emphasized the fact. He refused to look at himself, or any of them, as being victims. They were alive. They could still make their own decisions.
“My friend, you have a positive outlook on things, but I do not see how this will help us. We are stuck here.” Yuri had lost all tones of superiority, and the use of the word friend made Paul relax even further.
“Well, we can clear the camp, lock it down, plant seeds maybe, wildlife, animals, there must be some we could hunt in the woods. You must have food on site, too. Canned goods, right? This was a military base.” Paul felt his stomach rumble.
“You can talk well…”
“Paul.”
“Paul. But you have not yet convinced me. However, I do not think you will stop just yet. Am I right?” Yuri gave a laugh, jumped from the sofa and slapped Paul on the back hard enough for him to lunge forward and almost fall from the sofa. “Come, we go eat. You were right on that. We have many supplies. So for tonight, we will feast.” Yuri lead the way out of the library, and back into the cold and concrete general populace area.
They could hear the relaxing sound of forming friendships long before they reached the mess hall. The bare walls of the compound’s headquarters echoed and, for a moment, the sounds of life overpowered the bass-line drone of the undead. As they walked past a window that offered a broader view of the compound than the others, Paul allowed himself a moment to pause and look out. The zombies had lost interest in his group. Out of sight, out of mind, was the truest of all statements when referring to the undead. They milled around the compound; British evacuees and Russian soldiers, both victims to a network of political lies.
“It’s like peering through the looking glass,” Paul remarked when he felt Yuri move beside him.
“I don’t understand this phrase,” the Russian spoke softly. The wonder of their situation, the hidden wonder in the factual creation of a myth, was not lost on him.
“Like Lewis Carroll’s, Alice in Wonderland. What I mean is
they are the same as us. Two groups, thrown together without understanding why. Only, we still have ourselves, our self-control, while they…they are empty.”
“Like reflections. It looks the same, but is but a shell,” Yuri spoke proudly, pleased that he had understood the metaphor. Paul smiled at the man’s enthusiasm, and didn’t have the heart to correct him. Close enough, he thought.
In the mess hall, the groups sat, intermingled, with two clear groups having been formed. Although there was no clear hard or fast rule governing the split.
“Come, now we eat.” Yuri walked into the kitchen and sat down. Paul followed suit. While the chatter continued, a delightfully foreign aroma wafted out of the kitchen area, and a short time later, two large pots of a type of Russian stew were brought to the table. Everybody ate with gusto. The company, even in the face of the long term odds, had reinvigorated people. The removed threat of immediate execution had lightened the mood in both camps somewhat also.
Night fell, and as people were shown to their rooms, Paul somehow found himself returning to the library with Yuri. He feared a second vodka session, but his concern was unfounded. It was wine. A fine Merlot, which only added to his confusion at the state of the Russian military.
“We will be required to clear this compound. We will work together. No military, no civilians. No Russia, no Britain. We are one. You and I their leaders. So, friend, comrade, shall we work together?” Yuri got straight to business as he took a sip from his wine glass.
“I think that is a wonderful idea. We should work in teams. Your men are soldiers. They should take the lead, along with the strongest of us. Each man and woman will need to be armed. We seal of the compound first…”
“You mean, lock them inside…with us.”
“Yes, that way they cannot escape, and more cannot come.” Paul gave a gentle nod as he spoke, and watched the understanding cross Yuri’s face almost before he spoke.
“You are a clever man. We then dispose these creatures. We have enough weapons; bullets.” Yuri was proud of his compound, in spite of its reformed purpose.
“No guns, the sounds only attract more. Knives, bats. Weapons have to be manual – hand to hand work. Only shots to the brain actually stop them.” Yuri nodded as Paul spoke, listening with intent. The zombies were new to him, and the knowledge Paul shared was the most valuable anybody could ever give another person.
“Thank you, my friend. You have shared with me great details. You could have sent us out alone, to our deaths. You are a great English man. But now, let us talk. I have heard of your writing stories. You write down the tales of people, no?” Yuri smiled as he spoke, as if he were in the presence of a truly great name.
“Well, I am not Chaucer, but yes, I wrote down what had happened to people. That is how we learned the truth,” he added, taking pride in his own work, and amateur detective skills.
“You continue to impress me. Will you still write your stories, of the new days that lie ahead of us all?” There was eagerness to the voice that made Paul smile, for he knew what was coming.
“I haven’t given it any thought. I mean, I guess, there will be many tales to tell.” Paul smiled.
“Yes indeed, many tales of the undead, of heroes like yourself, and maybe even… a strong Russian champion, a second hero to the tales.” Yuri spoke with a sudden dry seriousness, and when Paul smiled at him, the pair both broke into a deep laughter.
Paul rose from the sofa, his comfort zone found, and refilled both glasses of wine. He handed one to Yuri, and then paced the room, staring at the books that lined the shelves.
“This room was left over from the war time. It was locked away. A secret room until we moved in under orders from the Kremlin. It is quite special here, no?” Yuri talked from the sofa, allowing Paul the freedom to wander where he wished.
“Yes, it is a room I could only dream of.” He spoke, walking along the shelves. He came to the desk and stared at the pen and paper that lay there. The upper sheet was yellowed with age, and the pen - a fountain point, the pot of ink still in its holder. He reached out and touched the pen, feeling the weight of it in his hand.
The paper too, was of a high quality, and had a generous feel to it.
“The rumor is that Stalin himself sat at this desk. That this room was his, or used by him, and only the highest of dignitaries.” Yuri smiled again, enjoying the look of wonder that spread on Paul’s face. “Sit, feel it. The world has changed, but history will always remain. We must never lose our history, for good or bad. It has made us who we are today, and allows us to determine who we will become tomorrow.”
Paul sat. The heavy leather chair squeaked as he found a comfortable position. He reached for the ink and removed the cap. With the pen filled, he wrote across the top of the page.
We have seen the world of men fall, the dead have risen, but we are survivors, and these words are.…
He paused, before leaving two blank lines and writing in large letters, three lines thick:
The Diaries of the Damned
He looked up from the page, and saw Yuri watching him intently. He took a deep breath and topped up the pen.
“So Yuri….Tell me your story.”
TO BE CONTINUED…?
***
Who is Alex Laybourne?
Born and raised in the coastal English town Lowestoft, it should come as no surprise (to those that have the misfortune of knowing this place) that I became a horror writer.
From an early age I was sent to schools which were at least 30 minutes' drive away and so spent most of my free time alone, as the friends I did have lived too far away for me to be able to hang out with them in the weekends or holidays.
I have been a writer as long as I can remember and have always had a vivid imagination. To this very day I find it all too easy to just drift away into my own mind and explore the world I create; where the conditions always seem to be just perfect for the cultivation of ideas, plots, scenes, characters and lines of dialogue
I am married and have four wonderful children; James, Logan, Ashleigh and Damon. My biggest dream for them is that they grow up, and spend their lives doing what makes them happy, whatever that is.
For people who buy my work, I hope that they enjoy what they read and that I can create something that takes them away from reality for a short time. For me, the greatest compliment I can receive is not based on rankings but by knowing that people enjoy what I produce, that they buy my work with pleasure and never once feel as though their money would have been better spent elsewhere.
Feel free to stop by my website www.alexlaybourne.com or find me on Facebook or on Twitter
Works by Alex Laybourne
Novels:
Highway to Hell Trilogy (Book 1)
Highway to Hell Trilogy (Book 2): Trials and Tribulations
Coming soon:
Highway to Hell Trilogy (Book 3)
Extract from Highway to Hell
Marcus Fielding looked at his watch; he was halfway through his shift, the last one of his current rotation, not to mention the last shift before his three-week vacation. It was a sort of second honeymoon. He and his wife had been together twenty years the previous April, yet had never been away just the two of them. They had always had at least one kid tagging along; first it was the twins, Erica and Bryony, then Roger, and finally little Marcus Jr. Not that Marcus cared. His kids were his life, and he would do anything for them.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand before replacing his cap. It was the middle of July and the temperature had been stuck in the low thirties for over two weeks already. While the heat was welcome, the new bulletproof vests the force had just issued made the officers who wore them lose fluid quicker than they could consume it. All in the name of safety, the duty sergeant had said. “Easy for him to say”, Marcus had grumbled along with all the others in his section at the end of their first shift wearing the new vests. He remembered that there had been a queue of people by the toilets waiting
to wring their shirts out before putting them in their bags.
“I’ll make one more round and then head back to the car. I’ll meet you there,” he spoke into his radio using another recent addition – the covert earpiece and microphone.
“Okay, I’m done up here anyway. There’s nobody…it’s too hot. Everybody’s down at the beach,” a young voice answered him; optimistic as ever, his love for the job still passionate and unbridled.
Simon Dillings had been on the force for three months and was the lucky protégé of Marcus. The only problem Marcus and every other officer he knew had with tutoring a rookie was the foot patrol. Although it did bump him up over quota, not to mention it was a tried and tested method of breaking in the new guys, showing them it’s not always gunfights and car chases like you see in the movies.
“Lucky them. Well we’ll head in for some grub and then you can impress me with your paperwork skills again. How’s that sound?” Marcus asked, grinning as he pictured Simon’s face drop, his glasses slip down his nose, and his mouth screw up, pursing his lips together in a way that made him look constipated. Marcus liked the kid. He was a good, honest guy, and he would go a long way.
“Boy, sounds like a party. You sure do know how to spoil a man,” the voice answered back, a little bit of attitude finally beginning to crack the ‘good-boy’ rookie shell.
The town center was quiet, with the age demographic definitely favoring the slow moving older citizens whose idea of causing trouble ended with whispering about someone at the local bingo hall or bridge club meeting. Deciding to cut his route short, Marcus turned left at the midway point of the high street and entered the covered shopping arcade. It had just been renovated a couple of weeks before, but the local youths had already managed to tag two walls with vibrant paint and even more colorful language. Truth be told, Marcus was surprised it had taken them that long. The town wasn’t known for being the most picturesque place in the country, and with an unemployment rate that never seemed get any lower, benefit claimants flocked to the town in droves; which in turn had led to council estates springing up wherever there had once been a bit of green ground where the kids could play.
Diaries of the Damned Page 31
