Prey for the Dead_Book Three

by C. A. Earl

  PREY

  FOR THE

  DEAD

  BOOK THREE

  By

  C. A. Earl

  Copyright © 2017 by Craig Earl

  Cover image courtesy of sumnersgraphicsinc

  All rights reserved

  No part of this document may be reproduced in any

  form without prior permission of the copyright holder

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  ~ 1 ~

  ~ 2 ~

  ~ 3 ~

  ~ 4 ~

  ~ 5 ~

  ~ 6 ~

  ~ 7 ~

  ~ 8 ~

  ~ 9 ~

  ~ 10 ~

  ~ 11 ~

  ~ 12 ~

  ~ 13 ~

  ~ 14 ~

  ~ 15 ~

  ~ 16 ~

  ~ 17 ~

  ~ 18 ~

  ~ 19 ~

  ~ 20 ~

  ~ 21 ~

  EPILOGUE

  Dedicated to George A Romero

  Prologue

  Matt Reilly stared down from the dirty second story window onto the debris-strewn car park below. A reinforced army bus had just chugged into life, the signal for a slow-moving group of around forty people to emerge from between two huge metal gates away to the right. Weary and forlorn, they boarded the bus one at a time, the last of them a blond-haired little boy whose farewell glance was lost behind the sharply snapping doors.

  Matt rubbed the top of his cropped brown hair and turned away from the window, almost bumping straight into the person that had snuck up behind him.

  ‘Jesus, Paige!’ he gasped, clutching a hand to his chest.

  ‘Sorry’ mumbled the slim girl, an insincere smile stretching across her pretty face as she skipped past him and went to the window. She watched as the bus moved away across the car park, turning right at the exit to the complex and disappearing around a corner. A dull clang sent her gaze snapping back in the other direction as the main gates were pulled to once more and secured by four masked, black-garbed soldiers.

  ‘Well, that’s another load gone’ said Matt, after a moment. ‘When are you off?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Should be, anyway. You?’

  Stifling a yawn, the man stretched his muscular shoulders. ‘Day after tomorrow. Thursday, I think. I don’t know for sure. I’ve lost track of the days...’

  Paige Ryder looked back over her shoulder and gave a gentle sigh. ‘Sawyer wants to see everyone in the sport’s hall in twenty minutes. I s’pose it’ll be all about when the rest are going...’

  Matt huffed. He stared back into her beautiful green eyes and lost himself for a moment. This feisty young woman, almost half his thirty-eight years, had made quite an impression on him with her short, spiky black hair and equally spiky personality. She was a cutie - of that there was no doubt - but in a world that had turned to shit she had also shown that she had guts too. A spark of desire made him gulp. Maybe he could persuade Sawyer to alter a couple of the manifests and let him leave on her bus. Surely it was possible, especially since there were now a lot less of them to try and accommodate...

  ‘Hey Matt? Matt?’ asked the girl, waving her hand in front of his face until his hazel eyes blinked. ‘Wow! Where did you drift off to?’

  Matt shook his head as if coming out of a trance. ‘Sorry. I was, uh, daydreaming...’

  Turning sharply away, he moved across to the other side of the storeroom, stopping in front of a six-foot tall unit containing four wide shelves. Various objects lay on each shelf including towels, swimming goggles, battered polystyrene floats and rolls of green string netting; nothing to warrant the attention he was showing them.

  If Paige had been able to see his face she would have been utterly confused by his strained expression. Instead, noticing his shoulders sag, her curiosity was merely piqued. ‘You okay?’ she asked, leaning back against the opposing wall while popping a stick of gum into her mouth.

  Without turning around Matt nodded, but his jaw was clenched with self-loathing. The deaths of his wife and son were back in his head and their screams were as fresh and raw as if they had happened only an hour ago. He closed his eyes and swore under his breath. They’re dead and here you are already thinking of your next bit of skirt. You bastard. If your brother were here now...

  Oh, who was he kidding? – Ben was dead too and so was Katie. They were all dead; friends, family, every single one of those women that he had cheated with and tossed aside. All dead...

  ‘Uh’ he stuttered, searching for words to break the silence. ‘What time did you say we’ve got to-‘

  ‘Twenty minutes. Well, fifteen now.’

  Matt turned around and tilted his head, giving an expression of uneasiness. ‘Y’know, I’m still not sure about him...’

  ‘You’re joking, right? Fucking hell, Matt, he saved us. I mean, I know he comes across like some sort of geeky bank manager but-‘

  ‘He’s a politician. That’s enough of a reason not to trust him, don’tcha think? Anyway, it was you that saved me, Paige. You and Ashley and the others. Not him or his soldiers.’

  The elfin girl shook her head and chewed her gum with extra intensity. The memory of finding Matt by the roadside and of nursing him back to health while others in her group wanted to snuff him out, were as strong as ever. But then so was the recollection of them being picked up by a troop of soldiers and brought here (along with thousands of others) to this mostly-intact former leisure centre. Within hours of arriving they were graced by the presence of the short, hazmat-suited Henry Sawyer, government representative and head of the recovery operation for the South East.

  Paige sighed and pointed out of the window. ‘You should take a look out there, Matt. A proper look. Those things are still out there on the other side of those fences. If Sawyer hadn’t had those built-‘

  ‘I know, I know.’ Matt shook his head. ‘But why all the cloak and dagger stuff? And why the fuck aren’t they telling us more? I mean, they must know who’s behind all this?’

  Paige threw her hands into the air. ‘It’s all military bullshit, we know that. It’s all ‘need to know’ shit. But I know one thing about Sawyer; he’s been as good as his word so far. Surely you have to admit that...’

  Matt rolled his eyes but reluctantly conceded the point. Though he hated to admit it, Sawyer had been extremely quick to act. The little man had designated the leisure centre a hub within which the survivors would be protected, fed and watered. Tall metal fences were erected in record time around the complex perimeter while a small number of wounded were taken offsite and quarantined as a precaution. A detailed schedule was drawn up, timetabling the evacuation of the remaining survivors to purpose built, better equipped gated communities over the South East area. Sawyer assured everyone that the same was being done all over the country, with other representatives covering other regions. These were the first steps to getting the nation back on its feet.

  Britain would rise again.

  Deflecting questions about ‘who was responsible’ and ‘how the dead were walking’, Sawyer had recently stepped up the evacuation program, reducing the cramped three thousand and twelve to the current population of two hundred and eighty-six in just a few days. Every morning armoured buses had arrived and departed with military precision.

  ‘Hey’ Paige said with a sigh, her voice softening. ‘We’re all gonna have to try and make the best of this. We just have to accept that things are never gonna be the same for any of us...’

  Matt pursed his lips as she turned to look back out of the window, his eyes instinctively drawn to her peachy, cargo-panted bottom. Then a creak from the open doorway made him whirl around to see a tall, black-garbed so
ldier standing there, an automatic rifle by his side. A Kevlar mask and tinted goggles completed the formidable-looking outfit, obscuring the man’s features.

  ‘Looks like we’re wanted’ said Matt, getting the girl’s attention. Paige gave a wry smile and scratched her head before pushing away from the window sill. As they walked past the statuesque soldier Matt gave a mock salute. ‘At ease’ he jibed, to no response.

  Paige shook her head as they wandered out into the narrow hallway. ‘Jesus, Matt. Why do keep trying to wind them up..?’

  ‘What? They don’t say anything, do they? They’re like the guards at Buckingham Palace...’

  ‘You mean like the guards there used to be...?’

  Matt nodded, allowing the girl to go slightly ahead so that he could stare at her backside once more. ‘Alright then’ he mumbled, without a trace of enthusiasm, ‘let’s hear what our Messiah has to say today.’

  Back in the doorway to the storeroom the soldier drew the rifle across his chest before following the couple along the hallway and down a winding flight of steps.

  Behind the Kevlar mask he was smiling smugly.

  ~ 1 ~

  Most people would agree that Arthur Cranley did not have the best start in life. Unwanted at birth, his early years were a catalogue of abuse: a cigarette burn here, the lash of a belt there, an arm or leg pulled or twisted to the point of dislocation. Ridiculed, beaten, deprived of food and locked away for hours in a dusty cupboard under the stairs, Arthur learned that the only person he could rely on – the only person he could ever really trust – was himself.

  For years the misdeeds continued, some days worse than others. If too much whisky was flowing, or if a bet on the horses hadn’t panned out, then he was best off keeping out of sight. The downside was that they could always catch up with him eventually - and then he would be made to pay.

  That is, until one monumental day in 1965.

  On that grey morning, the morning of his uncelebrated fourteenth birthday, Arthur Cranley finally had his moment...

  Hunched against the foot of a kitchen wall while taking a beating for daring to use too much milk, the youngster, between every whip of a leather belt, suddenly came to realise something:

  The blows were not as powerful as they had once been.

  The strength behind them was weaker than before, the pain inflicted by them now easily bearable. The boy’s bullying father, the man whose very image had at one time been enough to paralyse him with fear, no longer held that power.

  Rising up from the floor, the gangly teenager snatched the belt away and in an instant turned from victim to oppressor. An explosion of rage, fuelled by years of maltreatment, finally erupted within him. Again and again he lashed out, each blow more forceful than the last, using the instrument of his own torture to exact his revenge. As his mother ran screaming into the street, Arthur found himself alone with his tormentor for a total of thirty-eight minutes.

  It was time enough.

  Charlie Cranley’s features were unrecognisable when police burst through the front door to finally end the attack. It took three of them to drag the youngster away, yelling and kicking all the way into the back of a van while onlookers watched from behind every twitching curtain in the street. Ignoring their own consciences, the faces behind the windows shook their heads in ignorant judgement and bragged that they ‘knew this day would come.’

  From that moment - the moment that the van door slammed, the moment of his father’s death, the course of Arthur Cranley’s life was well and truly set. Caught up in the media whirlwind that followed, the boy was portrayed as a mentally unstable individual with an explosive temper and propensity for violence. An inability to communicate with others did little to help his defence, even though the bruises and cigarette burns marking his body seemed to offer another side to the story. His mother went on record to state that they were acts of self-harm, a theory that was debunked almost immediately. Suspicion inevitably fell on Ethel Cranley, although not quite soon enough. Three days after Arthur’s arrest she was found dead in her bath, a packet of pills and an empty bottle of whisky on the flooded floor beside the tub.

  Following an inconclusive psychiatric evaluation, Arthur was sent to a juvenile detention centre where he was to be detained until the age of eighteen. Tall, thin and introvert, he would become a target once more - although this time he would not react, almost as if nothing more could be done to break his will. The truth, however, was far more heartbreaking.

  Arthur Cranley no longer cared if he lived or died.

  Four years of incarceration trickled by, during which a stream of so-called experts tried to break through to the young man within. None were successful.

  Finally, in the summer of 1973, despite barely being able to communicate beyond the monosyllabic, Arthur was declared no threat to the public and allowed back into the world. One thing, however, had not waned in the transition from boy to man; a marrow-deep mistrust of other human beings. Spurning genuine offers of help and friendship, he chose instead a solitary life on the streets. A fledgling support system, underfunded, overstretched and understaffed, allowed him to slip through the cracks...

  Four and a half decades passed, and the sixty-eight year old tramp seen rifling through the rubbish on bin days and branded as ‘Smelly Arfur’ by mocking children became an occasional sight around the rural village of Kemsing, Kent. The gaunt, grey-bearded man had made his home in a stretch of secluded woods along an area of the North Downs that overlooked the village from half a mile away. Alone and undisturbed (for the most part) he slept away each day beneath a canopy of leaves and awaited the time when death came to call...

  On a morning nearer to that very day Arthur was rocked from his slumber by a series of whooshing sounds. Hundreds of huge black missiles were ripping across the sky, their vapour trails criss-crossing as they headed earthbound. Then came the explosions, a sequence of ear-splitting blasts that tore into the nearby village, levelling houses, uprooting lampposts and setting cars on fire.

  As trees collapsed around him the old man sought refuge beneath a rocky overhang, a place normally reserved as his winter dwelling. There he huddled with his arms around his knees, flinching with every tremor, unable to shut out either the thunderous blasts or the cries of anguish that accompanied them.

  When the attack finally ended and he emerged an hour later, it took another twenty minutes to negotiate the fallen trees and find a way up the slope. Eventually he clambered on top of the overhang, standing up to look out on a vista of heartbreaking devastation. A multitude of fires, too many to count, licked up at the sky amid billowing clouds of choking back smoke. Down in the village dust-covered people staggered here and there like ants emerging from a crushed nest, some carrying unmoving bodies with them.

  Arthur gulped and nervously scratched his beard, his childlike mind unable to comprehend what was happening. Casting his gaze further afield he saw other vast areas of carnage through the haze, other towns and villages away in the distance similarly levelled by the catastrophe. With his head spinning, he returned once more to the shadows beneath the overhang. There he pressed up against the wall of rock furthest from the entrance and curled into a foetal ball until a terror-induced sleep took him.

  When Arthur Cranley awoke again it was because of the sound of rain. He crawled slowly to the opening and gazed out, gently coughing at the acrid smell of oily smoke. Rain was falling, but it was unlike any rain that he had ever seen before.

  It was red.

  Wiping the grime from his brow he waited for the downpour to cease before leaving his burrow again. Then he climbed up the slope once more, at the same time trying to avoid the spatters of crimson on every broken branch or fallen leaf.

  Arthur’s aged knees almost buckled as he stood up on the outcrop and peered back down toward the village. The clouds of thick black smoke had dissipated to leave the sky a hazy grey/brown, but it was events on the ground that had caught his attention. People were running here and
there, some fighting among themselves, some snarling like animals as they dragged others to the ground and fell upon them. Arthur rubbed his eyes and looked again. There was no doubt. These attackers were eating their victims...

  Mumbling incoherently while the end of the world played out before him, Arthur hurriedly scrambled back down the slope toward the safety of his burrow. This time he dragged three fallen branches in after him, arranging their thick foliage so as to block out any trace of intruding daylight. With a handful of berries he once more huddled into the farthest corner and shut out the world. Although he didn’t know it then, his first encounter with one of the reanimated dead would not be long in coming.

  Six hours later a lone woman, her middle-aged body scorched by burning glass from the very first explosion, appeared on the crest of the slope. One side of her mangled head was a bubbled mess of melted flesh; the other side bizarrely untouched other than one smoky, Halloween-white eye. Stumbling forward, a misplaced step saw her pitch over an exposed root and tumble from the crest, landing squarely on a gathered mass of leaves and branches below.

  A surprised cry from inside the greenery sent the thing into an instant frenzy. Oblivious to its own horrendous wounds, it began clawing through the leaves and twigs, desperate to get to the prey within. Trapped, Arthur Cranley scrabbled in the dirt for the object closest to hand, finding a rock the size of a cricket ball. As the creature appeared he met it head on, opening up its skull with the very first blow.

  Even as the limp figure fell the old man was astride it, lashing out again and again with the increasingly bloodied rock until his arms ached and every part of the diseased brain had been mashed into a sticky paste.

  Utterly exhausted and wet with perspiration, he finally dropped the rock and fell over to one side.

  Eighteen minutes passed, after which Arthur had recovered enough to sit up and survey the damage that he had inflicted. Unable to come to terms with it, he dragged the body from his burrow and pushed it down the slope, watching it roll over five times before a fallen trunk stopped it going any further. At that point the old man turned away and climbed wearily back up to the surface of the outcrop, clambering on top and casting his eyes toward the village once more.