Bridge of the Dead
After the Fall 6
by Stephen Cross
Copyright © 2017 by Stephen Cross
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
By the same author, find out how the apocalypse began in
SURVIVING THE FALL
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01KBPYRFM
How England died. The story of the first few days of the zombie apocalypse, of those who lived, and those who died.
Surviving the Fall collects eight non-stop terror tales in one action packed volume, which together tell of the panic filled dawn of a new, undead world.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01KBPYRFM
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 1
The family tucked into a lovingly prepared meal of wild leaves and badger, the meat coarse and tough, but packed with vital protein. A good meal, especially so for the young boy who must have only been around eight years old. They crowded around a small fire, damp leaves feeding a thick white tower of smoke churning and tumbling into the sky above the trees. The dad took a break from eating to waft at the smoke; it baffled around his arms and regrouped a few feet above him. He shrugged and continued eating.
Unconcerned.
Although he should have been, for it was the smoke that led Chris to them.
The family’s tent was pitched in a wide clearing in the forest, surrounded by thick bushes and trees. Chris crouched and hid easily behind the thick foliage at the edge of the clearing.
Patchy mud around the outside of the tent suggested they had been there for a while. The entrance was tied with flowers. Trying to make a home. Chris knew how hard it was to keep moving with a young child in tow.
He tightened the grip around his axe.
A small murmur of conversation. “Eat it up, Ollie,” said the mum.
The dad said something that Chris couldn’t hear, but the young boy, Ollie, laughed, a pleasant sound.
A toy tractor sat next to the tent. Chris would have thought Ollie too old for a toy like that, but then things had changed, and kids always had great imaginations. Anything could be anything for a young boy. One day the tractor could be a race car, the next a battleship, the next a spaceship. Chris remembered packing boxes on top of one another in his nan’s council flat on the nineteenth floor, making a death star, a cave full of dinosaurs, a submarine. He had taken the boxes from the council estate’s bins. Only now he realised what good times they had been.
He quelled the pain in his chest that always accompanied thoughts of his nan. For he knew what came next, the memory of her being chewed and mauled by the zombies, three months ago at the beginning of the Fall, Chris unable to help, failing her again.
He pulled his balaclava on. Not because being identified concerned him; there was no CCTV or mobile phones to capture his misdeeds. The balaclava was simply for intimidation purposes. Something primeval in the fear of an assailant with no face. Like you were facing darkness itself.
Chris’s fingers were cold. A damp autumn day. Water dripped off the trees with every breeze.
The mum reached over and peeled another sliver of meat from the badger carcass. Chris had never eaten badger - he had never thought to catch one. It was a good idea though, badgers were big fuckers.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. “Sorry Nan, I love ya.”
He ran out of the thicket, his axe held high, letting out a primal scream, reaching deep down into his lungs to pull out the most vicious cry he could. Not just to scare the family, but to build the anger in his body, to fire his adrenalin. Any hesitation on his part could kill him.
The wide eyes of the family turned to him. The woman screamed. Ollie scurried behind his dad, who reached for something behind him. Probably a weapon. He was a tall man with black hair and a thin frame (everyone had a thin frame). Chris dashed the last few metres and aimed the blunt top of the axe towards the dad.
It hit him on the side of his head with a heavy thump, like a hammer being dropped on concrete. The man flopped to the wet grass, motionless.
A scurry to Chris’s right, and Chris had to stop himself from swinging at the kid. It was hard, his body didn’t want to stop, it wanted to swing at anything that moved.
Ollie ran behind his mum and hugged her, burying his face into her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around her child and stared at Chris with wide eyes of fear. Although, defiance lived there too, Chris would have to be careful. He didn’t want to have to take her out.
Silence for a moment.
Then Ollie let out a loud cry that turned to sobbing, he was saying, “Daddy, he killed daddy,” over and over again.
Chris walked over slowly to the figure by the tent, keeping an eye on the mum and Ollie. He crouched down and rested his fingers against the dad’s neck. There was a weak pulse. A sledgehammer lay next to the man.
Chris stood up.
“Right, listen,” he said. “He’s not dead. So the sooner I get what I want the sooner I can get out of here and you can sort him out.”
“We don’t have anything,” said the mum.
Chris shook his head. “Bollocks. I’ve been watching you. You’ve got that bag with all the powdered milk and medicine in it.”
The mum didn’t say anything. Her eyes moved for a split second towards the tent.
“Ollie, can you get me the bag?” said Chris in a quiet voice.
“Don’t you speak to him!” screamed the mum.
Chris jumped. He stared at her. Anger brewing. He would have to be quick. If she snapped he might have to kill her.
He walked slowly to the tent and glanced in. A heavy black rucksack sat by the opening. He reached in and took it out.
“We need it,” said the mum. “He needs the milk, we can’t get enough food for him.”
“We need it too,” said Chris, opening the zip on the bag. “We have a sick ten year old.”
“Ollie is only eight,” said the woman.
“I don’t give a fuck, what do you think this is, kiddie bingo, youngest kid wins?” White plastic bags of powdered milk filled the bag, interspersed with boxes of tablets.
“Leave us some painkillers, something for my husband,” said the mum.
Chris paused. He put his hand in the bag and pulled out a box of tablets. Ibuprofen. He reached in, rummaged around and brought out a parcel of bandages. “Right pharmacy here eh?”
He threw the bandages on the ground and looked at the woman. She was holding Ollie tight, the young boy still sobbing.
“Look, it’s not personal, you know,” he said hitching the bag over his shoulder.
“Why are you wearing that stupid balaclava? What sort of coward are you? Stealing from woman and children.”
“I’m the coward with the axe,” he paused - that hadn’t sounded the way he thought it would. “Good luck,” he turned and ran away from the small camp.
As he climbed through the bracken, back into the woods, he looked back. The mum was crouching over the dad. She was crying loudly.
He hoped his nan, wherever she was, had b
een making a cup or something, and hadn’t seen that. But even if she had, she would understand.
Chapter 2
A thirty minute clamber through the woods and down the grass side of the valley brought Chris back to his camp.
Young Nate sat by a fire. His dad, Terry, was helping Amy hang some washing out. Chris wondered why they bothered doing washing and shit like that. It was the end of the world, not a fucking holiday camp. You didn’t need to bother with clean clothes. He supposed they were just playing happy families. It hadn’t taken long for Terry and Amy to hook up, about two weeks after the Fall, when they were still in North Wales. Not that Terry cared about Chris fancying Amy for years, or that Chris’s nan had just been killed. Terry just dived in there.
But what the fuck was Chris going to do?
Terry was a big fucker.
“Alright kiddas!” shouted Chris as he walked across the field.
Three pairs of eyes turned to him.
“Alright mate,” said Terry. His hair had grown out at the sides, and whilst he had looked good a few months ago with his head shaved, he was beginning to look like some old teacher with his bald patch now. He used to have that Jason Statham look about him, but now he just looked like some creepy fuck. What did Amy see in him?
“Hi Chris,” said Amy. She gave him a wide smile. She was extra nice to him these days.
“What you get?” said Terry.
“Got a bag full of powdered milk, some tablets and other stuff.”
“Where you find all that then?” said Terry. He put the washing down and sauntered over to join Chris as he sat by the fire, opposite Nate.
“You alright Nate?” said Chris, winking at the young lad. “Got you some milk. Like a protein shake this shit, get you big and strong.”
Nate smiled at Chris and reached out to take one of the pouches Chris was holding out to him.
“Nice,” said Terry. “Where you get it?”
“Found it in a car, about two miles from here.”
“You found a road?” said Amy, joining them.
“Er, nah. It was abandoned, by some dirt path. No roads.”
They had been lost in the valleys of South Wales for the past three days. Running out of food. Water was never a problem as it always seemed to rain, but food was sparse. No villages, not even a hamlet. The most they had found was old farmhouses and derelict barns, cleaned out of anything useful a long time ago.
Terry sighed and sat down next to his son. He hugged him. “You said thanks to Chris then? He got that stuff for you lad. Good job that.”
Nate smiled at Chris again, “Thanks.”
Chris reached over and ruffled his hair. “Anything for you big man.” Nate didn’t talk much, not since the Fall.
Amy joined them at the fire, and dropped a load of leaves onto it. “That should keep it going.”
Immediately a thick white plume of smoke burst from the fire and tumbled into the sky.
“What the fuck are you doing?” shouted Chris, jumping up.
Amy flinched and took a few steps back, she looked from Chris to Terry.
Terry stood up, “Hey, easy lad!”
“Fuck’s sake,” said Chris, he looked around frantically. He ran to the pile of washing and grabbed a towel. He threw it on the fire, smothering the flame.
“Hey soft lad, What you doing?” Terry held his arms out and shook his head. “You gone nuts?”
The fire was out. Good.
He turned to Amy. She had backed away from Chris, looked scared. “Sorry,” he said, “didn’t mean to shout. Just, it’s dangerous, isn’t it?”
Amy shook her head. “God, you can’t half be a nobhead at times Chris.”
“It’s the smoke!” said Chris.
“You what?” said Terry.
“The smoke, you don’t know who’s watching it, who might find us,” said Chris, realising his voice had taken on that whiney quality he hated so much.
“Who?” shouted Terry, “There’s no one here!”
“Such a dick,” said Amy. She turned and walked back towards the washing. “Ruined a good towel you have.”
Terry put his hands on his waist, staring at Chris. “Get that fire going again bellend. It’s going to be freezing soon.”
Terry marched off to join Amy.
Chris stared at the embers of the fire.
“You want some help?” said Nate.
“Yeah,” said Chris. “Would be good that. Cheers lad.”
Chapter 3
The next morning arrived with a sharp and crisp bite, a portend of the coming winter. Chris tucked himself into his fleece before leaving the tent. Their camp consisted of three tents: his, Nate’s, and then Terry and Amy shared the last one. Chris had heard the pair at it the last few nights. If he could hear them, then so could Nate. Not right for a young lad to hear his dad going at it. Terry didn’t seem to care though.
They had a breakfast of oats and water. Chris used to love porridge when his Nan made it. She would use whole milk and mix in sultanas, blueberries, bananas, all sorts of fruit. Whatever it was, it tasted good.
“Tropical porridge, that. It’s what they eat in the caribbean,” she used to say. Chris didn’t think they ate porridge in the caribbean, but he used to laugh along with his nan anyhow. Even as a nineteen year old drug dealer, he still loved his porridge. So when he found a massive tank of the stuff in the back of some abandoned delivery van a few weeks ago, he took as much as he could carry.
“Good for carbs, isn’t it?” he said when Terry scoffed at the idea. “Thought a muscle man like you would know that.”
Except Terry wasn’t as much of a muscle man anymore. Hard to get protein. Chris and Terry had tried setting rabbit traps, but neither knew what they were doing, and there was no youtube videos to watch. Would have to find a library, said Terry, find a book on hunting before they all wasted away. Chris didn’t know they made books about stuff like that. Only books he had ever seen where them detective novels, Poirot and Marple, that his nan used to read.
Amy mixed up the powdered milk and mixed it into Nate’s porridge. “Good find that Chris.” She handed the porridge to the young boy.
“Yeah, thanks Chris,” said Nate, shovelling a hefty spoonful into his mouth. He smiled at the taste.
“So I reckon we follow the valley again today,” said Terry,”see if we find any roads or villages. Got to be one soon.”
“We haven’t seen anything for days,” said Chris. “What you reckon we try and get out of the valley?”
Terry shook his head. “Nah, let’s keep going south. We’ll start hitting towns sooner or later. Will be getting close to Cardiff won’t we?”
Chris shrugged. He didn’t know where Cardiff was, except in Wales somewhere, which was where they were. Once they had escaped from Liverpool, in the first few days of the Fall, they had headed into Wales. He reckoned getting away from the cities would be a good idea. It was - they had minimal meetings with zombies, and never more than a few together that they could handle easily. They soon became lost in the hills and the mountains though. Finding supplies got more difficult. Chris worried things could get desperate, especially if they were still in the mountains come winter. They’d be finished. Snow and that.
They set off early. The sun rose and removed most of the chill of the morning, but left the dew behind. Chris took off his fleece after half an hour of walking and tied it around his waist. The valley floor was thick with grass and copses of trees. Dry stone walls separated the landscape into many fields, and dirt tracks allowed them to walk easier. Spots of green had appeared between the rocks and dirt of the paths. Nature fighting back.
“Must be something around here soon,” said Terry. “All this farmland, must be a house.”
“Reckon the farmhouses are at the top of the valley,” said Chris.
“Why would they do that? Why would the farmer want to climb up and down the bloody big hills all day?” said Terry, marching ahead, not turning to face Chris as he
spoke.
“I don’t know. Weather and that. It’d be shit livin’ down here all the time, raining every day.”
“It don’t rain more just because you’re in a valley,” said Terry shaking his head.
“I think it’d depend on the farmer, where he wanted to live,” said Amy. Both men turned to acknowledge her and glanced at each other, before returning to walk in silence. Amy sighed. She was holding Nate’s hand, his smile long gone, replaced with the disturbing frown of determination he had developed over the past weeks. It was rare to see him smile. Poor lad. Ten years old, and living with this shit. Should’ve have been on his playstation, or his bike, causing trouble.
The path passed into a copse of trees. The group subconsciously moved closer together. The heavy covering of leaves, ripe and ready to drop, strobed sunlight across their path.
A solid silence surrounded them, the wood absorbing what little sound there had been in the valley; the twitter of birds; the rustle of the wind; the baaing of the sheep.
“Let’s hurry up,” said Amy, glancing around the trees nervously.
“Agreed,” said Terry, hiking his backpack up and setting off with a more determined pace. Chris kept up the rear, glancing behind every minute or so, suddenly edgy. Nervous. Too many shadows. It was only alright when you could see them coming.
A yell cut into the silence, Chris felt his stomach tighten. A human cry, maybe, but one of pain.
“What the fuck was that?” he said.
“Shhh,” said Terry, holding up his hand and staring ahead. Nate ran from beside Amy and put his arm around his dad’s waist. “It came from just round that bend.”
“Let’s get off the fucking road then,” said Chris.
“Good idea,” said Terry.
They moved off the track and behind the tree line. They tucked in behind a thicket of hedgerow.
Voices came closer. A woman, then a man. The man’s voice was strained, rasping heavy breaths, as if in pain.
After the Fall (Book 6): Bridge of the Dead Page 1
