The Fall Series (Book 3): The Fence Walker

by Cross, Stephen

  Sarah was sad to see Balinbridge disappear into the distance as they left in late afternoon. She would come back, one day, once she had found her daughter, and they would live in peace, reading all those books of the world, hidden from the terrors. Tears formed in her eyes. Allen pretended not to notice, and for that she was glad. He had his demons to deal with. He was so convinced his son would be at Tulloch Bay that Sarah was scared what would happen if he wasn’t. The past few days, as they got closer, he had become nervous in his movements. Brief glimpses of a chink in his armor, a tantalizing flash of the man that lived behind the army and only army exterior. There was more to him than protocol and the system and saving everyone in the world apart from himself.

  The path they were on took them up a seemingly never-ending steep rise. “Tulloch is just over this hill,” promised Allen. It was a pretty enough walk. The path burst in bright patches of myriad colors. The surrounding woods were alive with birds and the calls of other animals Sarah couldn’t place.

  Clouds approached - they came from nowhere. Just like the zeds. The first drops of rain quickly turned heavy. A storm was coming.

  “We camped up here loads of times,” said Allen as they walked through the thick woods that sat on top of the hill. “We’re only about an hour away now. Once we get through here, we get a great view of the whole bay. You can see the town and the holiday camp. Won’t be long.”

  Sarah and Allen had overtaken Abdul and Crowe now, Crowe stopping every now and again to explain to Abdul how to use various flora in survival situations.

  Sarah noted that Allen had become quiet; not an absence of words, but the complete silence of a soul lost within itself. “Just through those trees,” he said, pointing.

  Glimpses of green sea twinkled through gaps in the trees.

  The final steps took on a reverence reserved for a wedding or a funeral. Steps taken towards a definite change to the future, one that couldn’t be charted or predicted, but was sure only in its becoming. For the better or the worse.

  Pushing through the final undergrowth, they walked out to a short field of heavy green grass. It led to a sheer drop.

  Allen’s pace quickened. His breathing increased. He rushed towards the edge.

  Sarah hurried to join him. Allen stopped as the field dropped to the cliff. He stared ahead in silence, his body frozen, his eyes fixed on the unfolding scene of chaos below them.

  They were atop a headland that bookended a bay, the sea tumbling in murky blue and greens under the growing storm. At the other side of the bay was the far bluff, upon which sat the clustered town of Tulloch shrouded by the thick dropping clouds. On their side of the crescent, a small forest separated the bottom of the cliff, and then, like a small town itself, the holiday camp of Tulloch Bay, built of hundreds of little light colored chalets.

  Towers of thick black smoke tumbled into the air. Distant cries, like seagulls, drifted on the wind, but these were the unmistakable screams of people. Cracks of gunfire accompanied by bright red flashes, like blobs of color from a careless paintbrush.

  Crowe and Abdul arrived.

  “Shit,” said Crowe. He looked at Allen. “What now?”

  “We watch,” he said.

  Chapter 9

  June, 2004

  Dalby pulled on his cap, the final piece of his junior corps uniform. He stood back and looked at himself in the mirror. His dad patted him on the shoulder.

  “You look good, son. You wear it well.”

  Dalby could have burst with pride. It was rare for his Dad to talk, much less for him to say anything nice. Usually, Dalby was in the way, annoying his Dad, bothering him, making too much noise. He’d heard him tell his Mum before she died that Dalby was a waste of space, that Dalby had spoilt his Dad’s life, stolen his youth, whatever that meant.

  Whenever he put on the uniform, however, his Dad’s demeanor changed. Dad noticed him. Smiled even. Maybe Dad was proud of him. Looking in the mirror, Dalby was proud of himself. Those pricks at school… What would they be doing now? They would be hanging around in the park, getting drunk, smoking cigarettes. Maybe getting it on with some girls - he was jealous of that bit - but not the rest of it. They were the losers.

  Corporal Dalby, of the Westman Junior Army corps, was proud of himself, for once.

  “Atten-shun!” shouted Dalby. The group of teenagers in front of him bounced to their best approximation of attention. Dalby sighed and shook his head. Useless. What a terrible selection of soldiers, they wouldn’t be able to protect themselves from themselves, never mind an invading army. It was his duty to install some backbone in them, to get them into shape.

  “Baker!” shouted Dalby, A particularly scrawny boy stared at Dalby briefly then snapped his eyes ahead, he knew what was coming next.

  “What the hell is that, Baker? You don’t look at me, eyes forward at all times!” shouted Dalby. “You answer, Sir, whenever I address you. What the hell is wrong with you? I’ve told you how many times?” Dalby stepped forward until he was only half a foot away from Baker. He sensed the boy shuffling, uncomfortable of having his personal space invaded so bluntly. It made Dalby feel good. “Listen to me, you little idiot. YOU. SAY. SIR. YOU. DON’T. LOOK. AT. ME!”

  He saw Baker shake, only a little, but enough for Dalby to know his words had hit home. Baker’s lip quivered. It didn’t matter. This is what they were here for, to learn some discipline, to learn that the world is harsh, to learn that you can’t be a pussy about these things. If you wanted to be a soldier and protect the country, you had to learn a few hard lessons in life. One of those was that maybe you weren’t as tough as you thought you were.

  “Stop sniveling!” shouted Dalby. Dalby looked left and right to make sure he wasn’t being watched, then gave Baker a brief clip around the head.

  Dalby was sitting in Captain Branner’s office. A good man Branner. Dalby could see how he had made it to Captain. Tall with dark hair, a solid man. A full beard. He would have had the boys at school for breakfast, then all their dad’s for lunch. And his own Dad for that matter…

  “You’re doing well, Dalby,” said the Captain.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’ve really taken to the training. Your drills are impeccable, and you are getting a lot out of some of the kids, troops, I mean.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “One thing though, maybe you’re a little too brusque for this age group.”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t get me wrong Dalby, I understand where you’re coming from. We need discipline - your brand of discipline. But some of the other kids, the younger ones, well, we’ve had complaints from the parents.”

  “Sir, permission to speak, sir.”

  “Hold on Dalby. It’s nothing to worry about. I’m suggesting you attend the senior corps.”

  Dalby paused, had he heard the Captain right?

  “Sir?”

  “I’d like you to come on Thursday nights instead. You’re ready for the seniors.”

  He was only 13. He shouldn’t be in the seniors until he was fifteen.

  He struggled not to cry. There was good chance that if he cried, the Captain would rescind the offer. He didn’t want no pussies in the seniors, that’s for sure.

  “Thank you, sir,” he whispered. He couldn’t wait to tell his Dad.

  Chapter 10

  Sam eyed the radar on his boat. There was movement ahead to the north, a nautical mile away. A large body of something. Cod, maybe, who knew? In his thirty years at sea, during his fifty years of living in Tulloch, one of the few real locals who had survived to live out the new life in the holiday camp, he had seen sea stocks dwindle to a fraction to what they’d been. Now, in the year following the Fall, he had seen them explode with unprecedented fury. The fish were reclaiming the sea, as the mammals were reclaiming the farmland and the birds were reclaiming the skies.

  “Crew wanting to know, cap, we getting the nets out yet?”

  Sam turned to Ethan, “Not yet,
we’re heading out a league or so. Tell them to sit tight.”

  Ethan nodded and disappeared from the doorway of the small cabin.

  It was only a few days ago that Sam had to break up a fight with Ethan in the pub. He was a hot-head. His whole crew was hot-heads - all of them from the Wilds. It did something to you, the Wilds - Sam could see that clear as day. They were all a bit nuts. Well, most of them. Some of them were alright. Exceptions to every rule. Like that fella shacked up with Ash, Andy, he was okay. And of course, some of them who had been here since the start where a bit nuts. Jack sprung to mind. Sam glanced at his knuckles, still a cut where his fist had met Jack’s chin. He felt bad about that now. Jack hadn’t meant anything, just been caught on a bad day.

  But those from the Wilds, it was a different type of crazy.

  Raucous laughter from the back of the boat. Sam shook his head. No discipline.

  The boat lurched to the left and right, it wasn’t a bad sea today, but it wasn’t a great one either. Sam would keep an eye on the horizon, looked like a squall was approaching. Still a good way away, but he had spent enough time at sea to know that meant nothing. The weather could turn on a dime. Wouldn’t do for his small fishing boat to be caught out in a storm. The waves here would come from nowhere, capsize you in seconds. He had seen a few lost boats in his time; crews that never returned; ships on the horizon, unreachable in the storm, lost and lonely shadows on the edge of the sea, like little lost ghosts, waiting to been engulfed. He thought he had seen one such ghost ship a few nights ago, a small triangle on the horizon… He had had a few beers though. Had probably been nothing.

  The radar beeped, the large blip getting closer. Too good to miss. Concentrate, Sam. This catch would set them up for a few weeks. He increased the thrust on the engine, and the bow dipped and cut through the waves, its hull creaking like an old man at a nursing home, terminally unhappy and always moaning about something.

  The first spots of rain dashed the window of the boat’s small cabin. Sam turned on the wipers. Such a simple thing, windscreen wipers, but now a miracle, given the times. He was aware, however, that the mechanics of the old world wouldn’t last forever; petrol would go bad, then things would fall apart again, and they would enter a second apocalypse. James was trying to prepare them; getting people used to using wood for fuel, paraffin for light; but no one seemed interested. It wasn’t real until it was in front of your face.

  For his part, Sam was training his Fishers to row larger boats and to fish as a team. It was how he had started fishing with his Granddad, and it would be how he ended his fishing life. Full circle.

  The skies were darker. The wind had picked up. The boat dipped and swayed an extra few degrees.

  Ethan appeared again. “Hey, Cap,” he said.

  Cap, thought Sam. He hated that. Was it really that much effort to add the second syllable? “What is it, Ethan?”

  “Getting a bit rough out here,” he said.

  “This is nothing, son.” He glanced at the radar, they were nearly upon the large signal. “Tell the lads to get the nets ready.”

  He brought the ship’s engines down and lowered the anchor, the clunk of the chains a satisfying sound.

  Sam took one last look at the large blip on the radar and turned off the engines. The howl of the wind and the turn of the waves against the hull rising, all signs of the coming storm. They wouldn’t have long. They wouldn’t need long though. A few hauls would be enough.

  He made his way to the back of the boat. His crew of five milled around staring at the sea, staring at the clouds. Their eyes were not friendly. He would have to have a word with James, try and get some of the originals on his crew.

  “Ok, just a few hauls fellas, we’re over a gold mine here. Quick turnaround then we’ll get back before this weather becomes anything to worry about.”

  Without words, the men took the nets and with practiced drilled movements threw them into the sea. The five of them would be able to haul a good catch, but it would be nothing compared to what the winch would have done if it had been working. Sam had to hand it to the men though, give them a simple task and they performed it well.

  They let the nets sink towards the bottom. Sam glanced at the radar, the school had moved to the south, but they were still over it.

  “Ok, heave!” shouted Sam.

  As one, the men pulled hard. The nets raised slowly. A good catch.

  “Heave!” they shouted, their voices lost in the wind and the crashing waves. They didn’t have long, thought Sam. Maybe he would be happy with the one haul. He hadn’t survived at sea all this time by taking risks.

  Inch by inch the ropes emerged from the sea, pulling the nets and their catch closer to the boat. They pulled back from the edge, using their movement to pull the heavy load the last aching feet. It would be markedly heavier as it emerged from the sea.

  “Almost there!” shouted Sam, making his way to the edge to view the catch. As he leaned over to view the nets, what he saw made him gasped, fear grabbing his strong heart.

  The boat lurched. Sam slipped and was unable to shout his warning, his feet moving from beneath him as he fell and hit his head. It didn’t knock him out, but time slowed down and his vision blurred. For a few seconds, he couldn’t move or speak or tell which way was up.

  It was enough to allow all hell to break loose.

  The men, on seeing their catch, let go of the ropes, but it was too late. A few of the undead in the nets managed to grab hold of the side. The rest of the undead then held on to those, and as such the ghastly catch of zombies managed to hold tight to the boat. It lurched with the weight and Sam felt himself rolling towards the catch.

  He grabbed at ropes, nets, anything, but missed them all. He hit the side of the boat.

  “Sam!” he heard a shout above the chaos and the crash of the wind. Water threw itself over the edge of the boat, a giant wave soaking Sam.

  A hand grabbed his hand, and he scrambled against the slippery deck trying to get purchase. Another lurch of the boat in the opposite direction and Sam was thrown free of the zombie’s grasp, sliding to the other side of the deck.

  “What the hell!” shouted Ethan.

  “Fucking zombies,” shouted another of the men.

  Sam quickly appraised the situation. Several hands were latched onto the side of the boat. One zombie had managed to rise, the waves helping it over.

  “They can’t climb up, relax lads,” said Sam, getting his breath back. His head ached - he was going to have a hell of a headache for the next few days.

  Not the time to think about that.

  He took out three knives from the toolbox and passed them around.

  “Let’s get them back where they belong.”

  He walked carefully to the side of the boat, steadying himself against the motion. His feet slid, and he found himself pushing against the edge of the deck, inches away from the only zombie that had managed to get its head over. The face was even more rotten and disfigured than normal. Skin sank in heavy folds around the neck, a sallow green-blue color. It had a waxy appearance as if you could sink your hand into it. Some sort of worm-like creature was writhing from a burrow in the zombie's cheek. Seaweed hung over its shoulder.

  Sam steadied himself and took a swing at the zombie’s skull. The knife buried into the skull, stuck, and before Sam could retract it, the zombie went limp, and it fell back into the water.

  Sam stood back as the crew finished off the rest. It was mainly a case of hacking the hands off.

  A few minutes and they were gone.

  “What the fuck just happened?” said Ethan.

  Sam shook his head. “I thought it was a school of fish.”

  “What?”

  “The radar, we are over a massive signal. I thought it was a school of fish.”

  A realization hit each of the crew and they looked to each in alarm, eyes wide open. Fear, disbelief.

  “Which way is it heading?” said Ethan, voicing what each man was
thinking.

  “Shit,” said Sam. “Ok, let’s batten up, we have to get back.”

  He ran into the cabin and switched the anchor. The engine whined, then stopped.

  He turned it off, waited a few moments. Probably caught awkwardly under something. He tried again. No comforting rattle of the anchor chain being housed safely back in the belly of the boat, just the same terrible whine.

  Ethan popped his head into the cabin. “What is it?”

  “The anchor, it's stuck.”

  Sam turned a dial to supply more power to the anchor engine. The engine whine increased. The boat pulled to the front, where the anchor was housed. The bow ducked towards the black of the water.

  “Turn it off!” shouted Ethan.

  Sam switched off the engine, the boat bobbed back up to a relatively even keel.

  The rest of the crew were at the cabin door.

  “Can’t we just disengage it, drop it?”

  “Get to the housing, you can drop it from there,” shouted Sam

  “I’ll do it,” said Ethan. He ran out of the cabin.

  The boat pulled forward again.

  “Turn off the winch,” shouted one of the crew.

  “It’s not on!” said Sam.

  He backed away from the front of the cabin as the bow jerked forward, sinking into the water. He turned on the ship’s engine and pushed her into reverse, but still, water pushed over the bow, engulfing the front of the small fishing boat. Waves crashed against the cabin window. The sea, like a black train, poured over the front of the boat; the floor turned into a wall, and Sam fell towards the window, now black, a view to nothing but the depths of the ocean and oblivion. The glass shattered and Sam, surrounded by the shouts and cries of the crew, but only for a second, was under the water.

  Darkness.

  Sparks of white as the electrics of the boat blew, lighting up the deep for a fraction of a second; a snapshot burned to the back of Sam’s retina: untold writhing bodies climbing and hanging onto the anchor chain, all the way to the bottom of hell.