Year of the Zombie [Anthology]

by David Moody

  The milk yields were up, he was making a decent enough profit from the cattle he raised for meat, and he even had a farm shop, which sold home grown fruit and vegetables to an ever expanding market. And even though he missed his daughter, the fact that they were able to have Skype conversations on a regular basis meant that he could at least keep in touch with the one person who meant more to him than any other.

  Gwyn Callaghan, the farmer, was doing very well for himself. But it was the sheep that were causing him problems… those evil bloody sheep.

  ◆◆◆

  Gwyn was crossing the yard when he noticed an unfamiliar green Land Rover coming along the track that led to the farm. He glanced at his watch. Just after three in the afternoon. Visitors to the shop never came up to the farmhouse, and he wasn’t due a visit from the people at DEFRA for at least another month. So who was calling by on a quiet Friday afternoon?

  The Land Rover came to a halt at the entrance to the farmyard. Gwyn began to walk towards the new arrivals, when the back door of the vehicle was flung open, and a young woman jumped out of the cab and ran towards him with a big smile on her face.

  ‘Bethan?’

  Before Gwyn had the chance to utter another word, Beth cannonballed into him, knocking the tall man back a step. And then she hugged him with all her might.

  ‘Hello, calon. Looks like you missed your old man, then.’

  Her head buried in his chest, Gwyn only just heard Beth’s muffled, ‘Hi, Dad.’

  Gwyn looked up at the three other passengers who were stepping out of the Land Rover, nodded a quick hello, before turning his attention back to his daughter.

  ‘Well, this is a nice surprise. What brings you out to this neck of the woods?’

  ‘Oh, we’re having a weekend away from Cardiff and I just thought it would be nice to swing by and say hello.’

  Gwyn looked down at Bethan and said, ‘In that case… hello. Great to see you, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ve grown since I saw you last.’

  Gez and his companions stood a few feet away from the reunited couple. Gwyn looked over at them. ‘Well, I’m guessing that you’re Geraint,’ he said, nodding in Gez’s direction. ‘Beth does talk about you an awful lot.’

  Beth felt her cheeks start to redden.

  Gwyn’s gaze moved along to the next in line, ‘And I’m betting that our twitchy young friend over there, who’s clearly never seen a farm animal in his life, is Neil.’

  Neil didn’t react at all to Gwyn’s comments. He was far too busy keeping his eye on a couple of chickens that were wandering slowly across the yard in front of him. He took his eyes off the birds for just an instant in order to ask, ‘er, do those things bite?’

  Gwyn tried to suppress a smile. ‘No, Neil. They don’t bite.’

  There was a visible sigh of relief from the young man.

  ‘No, they don’t bite, they peck. But it’s the venom that does the damage.’

  ‘V... v... venom?’ said Neil nervously.

  ‘Yes. Your average chicken has enough venom to kill a grown man stone dead in less than a minute.’

  ‘I can see where Bethan gets her sense of humour’.

  Gwyn looked across at the dark haired man and winked slyly.

  ‘Pleased to meet you Mr. Callaghan, I’m Billy Morgan. I’m the one trying to keep an eye on this mob for the weekend.’

  He reached out his hand, and Gwyn shook it.

  ‘It’s good to meet you too, Billy. And please, call me Gwyn.’

  Before any further pleasantries could be exchanged, they heard a shriek from Neil’s direction and watched the young man run back to the Land Rover, jump in, and slam the door shut.

  ‘What’s up with you, now?’ asked Billy.

  Neil pointed towards one of the chickens. ‘It was looking at me funny.’

  ‘And on that note,’ said Gwyn, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ◆◆◆

  It took them twenty minutes to persuade Neil to leave the safety of the Land Rover. And they only managed that after Gwyn had ushered the chickens off the yard and then explained, in far more detail than was necessary, that chickens weren’t actually poisonous. He was finally persuaded to leave the vehicle when Gwyn told him, ‘look, these animals are more afraid of you, than you are of them.’

  Tea was served and the conversation flowed. Gwyn and Bethan had a lot of catching up to do, despite a Skype chat a couple of weeks earlier. And Gwyn was keen to hear stories about Cardiff from the rest of the group.

  Billy didn’t disappoint with some of his anecdotes.

  The afternoon stretched out in a leisurely fashion, and even Neil finally seemed to relax.

  ‘So, why head to Lampeter for the weekend?’ asked Gwyn finally.

  ‘Well,’ replied Billy, ‘I just thought it’d make a nice change for us all to get out of Cardiff for a few days, you know the sort of thing – fresh air, open spaces, poisonous chickens…’

  ‘Sod off,’ muttered Neil under his breath.

  ‘And on top of all that, we’re going to be spending tomorrow…’

  Before Billy had even finished the sentence, Bethan had kicked him hard in the shin. He could just about make out the fact that she was shaking her head at him.

  ‘Pony trekking,’ said Bethan, smiling happily. There was a perplexed look on her friends’ faces. ‘Just ordinary, safe as houses, pony trekking.’

  ‘Right,’ said Gwyn. He drew the word out as he spoke. ‘So you’re definitely not going zombie hunting then?’

  ‘Good grief, no. Why would we do something that mad?’ Bethan tried to laugh off the question, but the laugh sounded more like a mad cackle.

  Gwyn reached for the copy of the Western Mail resting on the sideboard in the living room. ‘Just because we’re out in the sticks doesn’t mean we’re not up to date on what’s happening in the rest of the country. I’ve seen the advert in the paper, you know.’

  Bethan squirmed in her chair. ‘Honest Dad, it’s just pony trekking and that’s it.’

  Gwyn squinted at his daughter. ‘Good. Because, if I thought you were going to be running around in the wilds trying to find zombies for fun, well I…’

  The penny had finally dropped with the other three, and before Gwyn had finished his sentence they were all talking across each other, promising that the last thing on earth they had in mind was to go zombie hunting.

  ‘It’s just a pony trekking weekend Mr Callaghan,’ said Gez.

  ‘Well, unless horses are venomous too,’ added Neil.

  His feeble attempt at humour cut through the tension in the room, and Gwyn visibly relaxed. Billy spoke up, ‘Listen Gwyn, I don’t blame you for feeling worried, but if it’s any use to you, I promise that I won’t let any one of them come to harm this weekend.’

  ‘What do you mean come to harm?’ snapped the wiry farmer.

  Bethan leapt in, ‘err… as in not come to harm falling off a pony. That sort of thing.’

  Gwyn looked suspiciously across the table, but Beth had her best poker face on.

  Billy sighed, and looked at his travelling companions. ‘Well, I suppose we should be making tracks. I’d rather get to Lampeter before the sun goes down. No telling what you might bump into once it gets dark, eh?’

  The four rose from their seats rapidly, and began to head for the front door of the farmhouse. As Billy was about to step outside, Gwyn grabbed his arm in a firm but friendly manner.

  ‘Listen Billy, I know you’re heading to Lampeter to look for zombies. I’ve known Bethan long enough to tell when she’s lying. And truth be told, the rest of you weren’t much cop at pulling the wool over my eyes either. Just promise me you’ll take care.’

  Billy nodded, ‘As I said Gwyn, I’ll make sure no harm comes to any of them. And that’s a gold-plated promise, boss.’

  ‘Good enough for me.’

  They stepped out onto the farmyard. Bethan and Gez were leaning against the Land Rover. ‘Where’s the other clown?’ shouted Billy.

&n
bsp; Beth pointed, ‘He’s sat on that gate over there, trying to chat up a sheep.’

  Gez grinned, ‘Once a Welshman, always a Welshman, eh?’

  ‘Oh Christ!’ yelled Gwyn. ‘The sheep!’

  He sprinted across the farmyard towards the gate, with a worried Billy in hot pursuit.

  ◆◆◆

  Neil was sat on top of the large wrought iron gate, looking out over Hafod Isaf farm. He spotted the sheep on the other side of the field, just standing there, staring.

  ‘Now HE really is looking at me funny,’ thought Neil.

  The creature started to walk sluggishly across the field. Neil thought it looked in rather a shabby condition, and was possibly injured, judging by the unsteady movement of the beast. Neil tried to encourage the animal. ‘Here boy... Uncle Neil’s got some nice mint sauce for you.’

  He chuckled to himself as the sheep drew ever nearer. The creature was less than ten feet away from the boy when it bleated savagely and then launched itself forward, far quicker than Neil thought possible. As the beast barrelled along, it lowered its head slightly and at the final moment jumped up at the shocked teenager. Whether it was just dumb luck, or bad judgement from the animal, the sheep’s skull hit the gate just below Neil’s feet, and the impact knocked the young man backwards.

  Neil couldn’t stop himself falling, but at the last moment a pair of strong sinewy arms caught hold of him.

  ‘It’s okay, son. I’ve got you,’ said Gwyn, breathless.

  The farmer hauled Neil away, and the teenager looked on in horror as the sheep repeatedly tried to lunge at him through the bars of the gate.

  ‘Bloody hell, Gwyn,’ said Billy, grinning. ‘That bugger’s a bit of a handful. Horny, is he?’

  ‘No. Hungry.’

  Now, there was a look of horror on both Neil and Billy’s faces.

  Neil moved further away from the gate and the thrashing animal. ‘What? You mean that sheep’s a Stench?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Stench, Gwyn. It’s what we call zombies.’

  ‘I see. In that case, Neil, yes, it’s a Stench.’

  Billy was dumbstruck for a moment before managing to gather his thoughts. ‘Hang on a minute. How the hell do you get zombie sheep? I thought it was only humans that were affected?’

  Gwyn looked at Billy shamefaced. ‘Well, you know the old jokes about ‘sheep shaggers’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it seems that it’s not just the living that enjoy that kind of… erm… activity.’

  ‘Sheep shagging zombies?’

  Gwyn just shrugged his shoulders. Billy tried to work out the logic of such a thing but even he couldn’t make any sense of this latest outrage by the undead.

  ‘But hang on a minute, they’re dead. How the hell do they… you know. What I’m trying to say is, your average Stench isn’t really equipped to be fruitful and multiply.’

  Neil had a confused look on his face. Billy turned to him, ‘I’ll explain it to you later… or when you’re older.’

  Gwyn was very nonchalant, ‘Look, we’ve already got dead people wandering around out there. So, to be honest, the idea of a zombie sheep doesn’t really seem that much odder, all things considered.’

  By now, Gez and Beth had joined the rest of the gang.

  ‘What’s wrong with that sheep?’ asked Bethan.

  ‘It’s a Stench,’ yelled Neil while pointing at the enraged beast.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me,’ uttered Gez in amazement.

  Billy turned to Gwyn. ‘And you asked me to promise to look after these kids when you’ve got something like this roaming loose on your land?’

  Gwyn nodded in agreement. ‘I know. But at least it won’t get through the gate. They never do.’

  ‘They? They?’

  ‘We get one of these turning up about once a week. As long as you stay well away from them, it’s fine.’

  ‘And when they start trying to jump gates in order to take a bite out of you?’

  ‘Well, normally, I’ll just fetch the cattle prod from the barn, give it a zap, and off it goes.’

  ‘Do you think it might be worth getting the cattle prod now, Gwyn?’

  ‘I would, Billy, but the batteries are dead, and I’ve not had time to buy new ones this week.’

  The sheep kept driving its head through the bars of the gate, eager to take a bite out of the travellers who were watching it in horrified fascination.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Gwyn, ‘I’ll go and get my sledgehammer.’

  ◆◆◆

  The zombie sheep were an unfortunate, and sordid, by-product of Rotten Monday. There were pockets of these dangerous creatures to be found across a number of rural areas in Britain, proving that it wasn’t just the Welsh who had a romantic interest in woolly livestock.

  The government’s department for agriculture (DEFRA) was well aware of the problem, but tried to keep a lid on any stories being spread about this strange contagion. For the most part, they didn’t want to create any further panic but primarily they were just very embarrassed about the whole thing.

  Again, scientists were baffled by the creation of these sheep. There was no evidence to suggest that the human Stenches had the wherewithal to convert any of the animals they “interfered” with, and the experts couldn’t understand why only sheep were affected. However a couple of farmers managed to half clear up that point by suggesting that trying to mate with cattle or horses would mean using a stool, stepladder or other device in order to reach. And so far no Stench had shown any creative thinking skills, and their sense of balance was hardly the best, either.

  One junior biologist summed up the scientific community’s confusion at explaining the zombie sheep presence with the sentence, ‘Perhaps they just fancied a change.’

  Despite the government’s best efforts, stories did leak about the creatures. Thankfully, most people dismissed it as a rural myth, or just a practical joke; but some did take more seriously.

  A group of animal rights protesters who’d discovered the truth, headed out to rural Wales to try and defend the sanctity of these poor, persecuted animals. Thirty of them headed out and only ten returned, and that was the end of that particular crusade. From thereon in they stuck to rescuing plants and trees. It was a damn sight safer.

  For the most part, if you lived in the country, you were always wary of single sheep and flocks were to be avoided at all costs. Luckily there were only two flocks that had been catalogued – one in the hills to the north of Machynlleth and the other deep in the heart of Anglesey. Only the most foolhardy would venture into those territories – which meant, for the most part, English tourists and particularly stupid sheepdogs.

  For years before Rotten Monday there had been a legend circulating around the country about the “Beast of Bont”. In 1996 a large animal, possibly an escaped Jaguar or Puma, had attacked over fifty sheep around a village, some fifteen miles from Aberystwyth. To this day, no-one had seen the monster, and there were still some doubts over the authenticity of the animal. But if you asked any of the old folk in the area, they remembered the beast only too well.

  But for the younger residents of Aberystwyth and its surroundings, the “Beast of Bont” was nothing in comparison to the nightmare stories they’d been told about the “Black Ram of Borth”.

  Depending on which local you asked, the black ram was anywhere between five and thirty feet long. It tended to have either no eyes, red eyes, “black eyes like the devil’s himself”, or you couldn’t see the eyes because of the size of its horns. And again, the horns carried their own separate legends. They dripped blood, were sharp as razors, had a man’s head impaled upon one of them, made an eerie screaming noise when the wind blew across them or any number of similar permutations.

  The only thing that wasn’t in doubt was that the black ram was a vicious brute, and had badly mauled at least a dozen people. He had marked out his territory near the coastal village of Borth, some six miles north of Aberystw
yth, and had even been spotted on the beach once or twice.

  As one local put it, ‘it’s not too bad if you like a swim. At least having that big black bugger on the beach seems to be scaring the sharks away.’

  Posted at intervals, along the beach at Borth, never had a ‘Beware of the sheep’ sign looked less comical and more ominous.

  TEN

  It was just past eight o’clock at night when the Land Rover crossed the bridge over the river Teifi, and arrived at the barricades that led into Lampeter town. As they pulled up, they noticed three men sat in deck chairs, drinking mugs of tea. One of the men rose from his seat, strode over to the Land Rover and leaned against the roof.

  ‘Ie? Shw’mai. Shwd I chi heno?’

  Billy looked up at the stranger. ‘Sorry mate, I don’t speak the lingo.’

  ‘Ah, right. English are you?’

  ‘No, from Cardiff.’

  ‘Same thing,’ said the man, grinning cheekily. ‘So, are you here for the zombies or the rugby training? Most people that stop in Lampeter come for one or the other.’

  ‘Rugby training?’ asked Billy.

  The man turned to his seated friends, ‘Hei bois, d’yw rhein ddim yn gwbod dimbyd am y rygbi.’ He turned his attention back to the passengers in the Land Rover. ‘I was just telling the boys, you didn’t know anything about the rugby. Well, just head up to the training ground on North Road tomorrow morning and you’ll see for yourselves. It’s quite a spectacle.’

  The two men in the deck chairs started laughing. Billy just looked at his companions and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Fair enough boss, we’ll give it a look then. Anyway, we’d best head into town.

  ‘Right you are,’ replied the man and motioned his colleagues to help him move the barricade to let the vehicle through. Billy shifted Lizzie into gear and drove towards the Castle Hotel.

  ◆◆◆

  The Castle was a no-nonsense, down to earth, honest to goodness ‘boozer’. An open plan room with a bar in the middle, pool tables at the back, a dart board and juke box off to the side, with big screen televisions fixed to three of the four walls. As Billy noted when he stepped through the doors, ‘it’s like coming home.’