Lanherne Chronicles (Book 2): Five More Days With The Dead

by Stephen Charlick

  Then, almost instantly, the Dead man on top of him stopped, inexplicably frozen in his frenzy. It wasn’t until Gabe could tear his eyes away from the strangely still face that he could see the long arrow lodged deep in the Dead man’s head. With an effort, he managed to push the cadaver off of him just in time to see another arrow fly past his shoulder and strike the next Dead thing that had been reaching for him. Stunned, Gabe could only watch as the thing crumpled to its knees and then finally toppled face down into the cold mud. He was then snapped back to the now by the loud warrior roar coming from a huge man running past him, swinging a lethal looking club left and right as he went. The Dead fell quickly under his blows. Leaving only torn skin and shattered bone in his wake, such was Phil’s skill in terminating them permanently.

  ‘Get up, Gabe!’ Came a voice from above him.

  Looking up, Gabe could see Imran’s calm face taking in every detail of the battle with his bow taut and ready to fire.

  ‘Are you bitten?’ Imran said, glancing briefly down at the boy in the mud.

  ‘What?’ Gabe managed to ask, a little stunned that the group from Lanherne had appeared from nowhere to come to his rescue.

  ‘Are you bitten?’ Imran repeated, raising his bow to take aim on the approaching shambling figure of a burnt Dead woman.

  ‘No, no, I’m not bitten,’ Gabe whispered, not believing his luck.

  Imran let his arrow fly and within the blink of an eye, it appeared lodged in the woman’s temple, killing her.

  ‘Good,’ Imran said, smoothly reaching for another arrow from the quiver on his back. ‘So are you going to lie in the mud all day?’

  Imran gave Gabe his hand and pulled him upright.

  ‘Thanks,’ Gabe said, resting some of his weight on Imran’s shoulder.

  As the last of the animated corpses fell to Phil’s onslaught, the only sound drifting across the Substation compound was the heavy panting of the fighters trying to catch their breath as their bodies combated the effects of the surge of adrenalin that had been pumped through them.

  ‘Thanks, big man,’ Leon said to Phil, hacking up some phlegm to clear the taste of death from his mouth, ‘God, do we owe you…’

  ‘No problem, Leon,’ Phil replied, tapping some fleshy remnants from the end of his club ‘Don’t tell me it’s just you three left?’

  ‘No, Helen, Jasmine and Sarah also made it. They’re in the stable,’ Patrick said, walking over to Phil and slapping his shoulder in thanks, ‘Oh, and Chloe too, on the roof.’

  Looking over to the roof, they could see a still distraught Chloe, her hands tightly gripping the lip of the roof. Where her fingers curled onto the concrete streams of blood from her split fingernails had run down, staining the grey wall.

  ‘Better get her down from there,’ J-Man said, walking over to the stable.

  ‘No,’ Patrick and Phil said in unison.

  ‘First, we check the rest of the compound,’ Patrick said with a nod at Phil, knowing that was what he was going to suggest too.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Phil added, smiling, ‘But if I were you, I might let the Mrs in there know you’re okay.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Patrick smiled, running over to the closed stable door and giving it a knock.

  ‘So how did you know?’ J-Man asked the new arrivals, plonking himself down on an over turned water barrel.

  ‘The lights flared for a few seconds at Lanherne,’ Imran said, helping Gabe, hop by hop, over to join the group, ‘and Duncan figured you were on a direct path from the hydro-electric plant near the coast.’

  ‘He figures that’s the most likely candidate,’ Phil added, using a knife to remove a particularly wedged on scrap of scalp from between the nails on his club.

  After Imran sat Gabe down by the stable, the small group began their search of the compound for any more of the Dead. They eventually found one more sorry creature pulling itself slowly along the ground, trailing its shattered limbs behind it. Its back had been crushed under the hooves of Shadow the previous evening and only the massive damage that had been inflicted upon its body had prevented it from joining its Dead brethren at the stable. Once this corpse was finally put to rest, Patrick looked up at the pylon. It had been their home for so long and it pained him that it had ultimately been the implement of their destruction.

  ‘We’re not checking up there,’ Patrick said, gesturing to the pylon, ‘We’re not risking any more lives. We don’t know if the electricity is off for good again or what? If there are any of the Dead trapped up there… tough.’

  He got no arguments from the rest and as they walked over to the stable to alert Helen and Sarah, it was all over, Patrick looked up at the pylon one last time.

  ‘You want it as a tomb then it’s all yours,’ he whispered.

  ***

  Earlier that morning, Private Steven Blackmore, dressed in full combat gear, was sitting in the canteen tent with a few of his platoon, forcing himself to eat yet another unappetising MRE pack. He knew it was meant to be some sort of pasta in a rehydrated tomato sauce but as always, there was the background metallic tang of something artificial about it. It didn’t help that most of the packs they had left were well past their prime and the truth was that only those packs whose contents had been freeze dried all those years ago were even edible at all now. As usual, the men kept their heads down and put up with it. They had learnt hard and fast that those mouthing off to those in charge were usually given the worst detail and in a world of the walking Dead, ‘worse detail’ could get you killed.

  ‘Man, I can’t wait to get back to base,’ said the man sitting next to Steve, unenthusiastically with a plastic fork poking at his own MRE packet.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Steve said turning to his friend, Private Matthew Jennings. ‘Never thought I’d be looking forward to the slop we get there but this pasta tastes like shit.’

  Like himself, Matthew Jennings had become a solider by situation rather than desire. Matt’s mother had been one of the original doctors sequestered at the base during the initial outbreak and like all those who had been pressed into service; she took her immediate family with her; namely Matt and his sister Karen. His mother’s speciality in molecular biology had seen her whisked away from her work in the pharmaceuticals lab and taken under escort to collect Matt and his sister. Apparently, Mum had had a few secrets she had been keeping from her children, namely that she had also worked for the government on some hush-hush projects; a few of them quite suspect. So when Matt’s mother had turned up at his school with his sister holding her hand and armed soldiers on either side of her, he had been more than a little surprised. Scared and a little confused, Matt had left midway through his history class to follow his mother out of the classroom and out of the school, not realising that he would never see any of his classmates alive again. Within the space of an hour, a sixteen year old Matt had found himself boarding a jet with a mixed group of doctors, scientists and army personnel, and on his way to an island government base that officially didn’t exist.

  Like Steve, Matt and all the other children of the chosen few, soon found out their childhood was to be a brief affair and any thoughts of life returning to normal any time soon were brutally put straight by Professor Farrell and Major Carden. They were told in no uncertain terms that this was to be their life for the foreseeable future and anyone who didn’t pull the line was invited to swim to shore and take their chances there. To ram the point home, they were then shown INTEL footage that was shot from a chopper, which had just flown over from the mainland. As gasps of horror filled the auditorium, the children and lucky spouses of the chosen, watched the Dead rampaging through a small town, tearing into any of the living unlucky to fall in their path. No matter how bad life was to be for them now, they would put up with it, because the alternative was beyond contemplation.

  Technically, the base started out under Farrell’s CDC command, but after a few mishaps involving some active Dead specimens, Major Carden had taken control with an
iron fist. Using the loyal muscle of the squadrons under his command, one of which was led by Stephen’s father and the three SAS men that had arrived just before all hell had broken loose, Carden had soon put Farrell in his place. From that point onward, he decreed that any children or non-essential personnel above the age of fourteen were also to be conscripted into Carden’s forces. Major Carden was no simple power mad idiot though. He knew he ultimately needed Farrell and the skill of his team of scientists to find a cure or vaccine and he made it his job to make sure Farrell came up with the goods. He pushed Farrell day and night for results and he pushed him hard. As months became years and still no effective vaccine had been produced, Carden went so far as to force Farrell to push the boundaries of acceptable scientific practices. It was from that point on that something dark and savage descended upon the base. Troublemakers, the weak and anyone who rocked the boat would disappear and when strict orders were given that no unauthorised non-medical personnel were to enter the labs, it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. By the sixth year, the suicides began. They were not only restricted to the number of mentally frayed soldiers, living in fear for their lives but also among the scientific staff who could no longer cope with the things they were being forced to do in the name of research. One consolation was that, at least on the base, weapons were easy to get hold of and those who killed themselves, stayed dead. Not that Matt and his sister found much consolation in that fact, when one breezy May afternoon, one of the science team came to break the news that their mother had shot herself in the head. It was only when their numbers dwindled noticeably that Carden and Farrell decided to make the ‘rescue’ missions to the mainland.

  For the last few rescue missions, Farrell’s team had been looking for something specific among the small groups of survivors they came across. There had been hushed conversations and much consulting of scribbled notes whenever they found somewhere new. However, just what they were looking for, Steve and the rest of the squadron were kept none the wiser. Apparently, the scientists had made some sort of breakthrough and needed to test their theory. They had heard all this from them time and time again over the last seven years and still the Dead tried to eat them, so Private Steven Blackmore wasn’t holding out much hope.

  Suddenly with a ‘beeping’ sound, each of the soldiers began to receive orders through their earpieces, telling them the Convent was a ‘go’ situation in five minutes and they were to make last minute weapons checks prior to rescue mission Alpha-Nine commencement.

  ‘Copy,’ each of them said in turn, as they relayed receipt of their orders.

  With a clattering of boots, gear and weapons, the soldiers made their way smoothly out of the canteen tent to join the rest of their squadron by the three Jackal armoured vehicles. At that moment, Farrell’s right hand man, Dr Frank Morris, came scurrying out of Staff Sergeant Blackmore’s tent and over to the mobile med-lab. With sheets of crumpled paper held firmly under one arm, he frantically typed data into his handheld console. The window for their only satellite connection back to base was due shortly and Frank needed to keep Farrell up to date with any developments his field team had come up with. As the door closed behind Dr Morris, Steve caught a glimpse of the survivor they had rescued yesterday. There had originally been two of them but the man she had been travelling with had turned out not to be suitable for rescue, so now only she was to join the other seven rescued civilians in the holding truck for her journey to a new home. She was having blood samples taken by one of the doctors at the moment while another checked some figures on a computer screen. Even in the split second that their eyes locked, Steve could see the hate and sense of betrayal the woman was feeling. The man obviously must have meant something to her.

  ‘Fuck,’ Steve said to himself. ‘This isn’t right.’

  ‘Shh!’ Matt said in harsh whisper, his eyes flicking to the med-lab and instantly knowing what Stephen was thinking. ‘You want to get yourself killed… or worse?’

  ‘We all know what going on here, so why are we bullshitting ourselves into thinking it’s something it’s not,’ Steve replied, checking his weapon.

  ‘Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but what choice do we have? You want to end up like Jones?’ Matt whispered, checking the magazine of his SA80 assault weapon was fully loaded.

  At the mention of the name, Steve froze. What his father had done to Jones had earned him a seat in hell as far as Steven was concerned, let alone all the other bastard things he had done since.

  Unlike Matt and himself, Jones had not been one of the conscripted. He had already been a soldier for a few years prior to the arrival of the Dead. He had been a professional soldier. It had been his career and that had made what he had done appear even worse in his father’s eyes. Jones had been caught by Dan Hills, one of the SAS Commandos, trying to desert the squadron two weeks before with nothing but his assault rifle, some ammo and a bag of supplies to take him into a new life. He had simply had enough and he knew he had to leave or he would end up, like so many of his comrades, putting a bullet in his own head. Putting yourself before your duty was the most heinous of crimes as far as Staff Sergeant Blackmore was concerned and he meted out Jones’ punishment with self-righteous justification.

  ‘Some good old fashioned justice,’ he told the men, as Jones knelt in front of the assembled squadron. ‘Lance Corporal Jones should be shot for his desertion but I will give him a chance to live the life outside of the army, he was so desperate to have.’

  Jones had looked up at Blackmore, even then knowing any hope he had that the man would let him go was misplaced.

  ‘But,’ Blackmore continued, and Jones in that moment knew he was doomed, ‘we cannot take the incident of theft so lightly, I’m afraid. Lance Corporal Jones, you have been found guilty of stealing one SA80 Assault weapon, 60 rounds of ammunition and multiple food stuffs from our already depleted stores.’

  With a flick of his fingers, Hills eagerly moved in with Streiber, one of the other SAS men, and began to wind wire tightly about Jones’ wrists. Steven still remembered seeing the wire pulled so tightly that Jones’ hands were soon slick with his own blood.

  ‘Hold him,’ was all his father had said, as he stepped forward, drawing his long sharp bayonet from its sheath.

  By the time Staff Sergeant Blackmore had moved onto the second hand, Jones’ screams had become unbearable to hear. So when the job was finally completed, his throat raw and bloody, Lance Corporal Jones was unable to plead for his life when the two Commandos took him from the camp. Leaving behind the two severed hands and a pool of drying blood as a warning to the rest, Blackmore had seen the whole affair as a good exercise in discipline. In fact, he was quite glad that Jones had been so stupid to get caught. No one else would think of leaving, because he had drawn the line and now they all knew the consequences of crossing that line.

  ‘Right, I want this to go by the numbers,’ came Staff Sergeant Blackmore’s commanding tone, gaining the immediate attention of the group assembled soldiers in the makeshift compound. ‘The Convent might be more fortified than we’re used to but I don’t foresee getting any more trouble than we’re used to. I want smooth tactical formations when we get in, a full sweep of all buildings room by room and all civilians gathered together ready for Dr Farrell’s team to process by zero-nine-hundred hours. Any questions?’

  As always, no one dared voice any doubts they might be harbouring. To do so would bring Blackmore’s disapproving gaze upon them and that could be dangerous. Blackmore had no use for a man who questioned his orders. They were here to do as they were told not think for themselves.

  ‘Right, let’s get this over with,’ Blackmore said, instantly dismissing the men from his thoughts.

  With practiced drilled movements, each man silently took up their positions in their assigned Jackal armoured vehicle and as the engine roared into life, each of them prayed to their gods for forgiveness for what they were about to do.

  The Jackals in
which they rode, had originally been designed as rapid assault support vehicles and had been built to protect personnel against roadside explosions and mine attacks. With just an addition of a few extra sheets of metal to the already armoured structure, they had been transformed into something that resembled a small tank and had proven their weight in gold in the war against the Dead. Each vehicle could carry three personnel, two of which would be manning the formidable machine guns and as Steve stood, slowly pivoting the large weapon he held, he made a three-sixty sweep of the terrain. Behind him, he could see the third Jackal, the Med lab and then the civilian holding truck came up the rear. Unlike the Jackals and the Med lab, the holding truck didn’t have the luxury of air-bag suspension and was bouncing about quite dramatically as its large wheels dipped in and out of the large potholes dotting the road. Catching movement in the corner of his eye, Steve swung the machine gun round on its pivoting gun ring just as a decrepit looking Dead woman stepped out from the roadside hedgerow and onto the road. As always, the noise of their convoy attracted the Dead as effectively as a dinner gong but as long as they only appeared in their ones and two, firepower would not be wasted on them. Sure enough, as his vehicle sped past her decayed reaching arms, she was clipped by the Jackal behind him and pulled under its large heavy wheels.