by Frank Tayell
“Good enough. Clear up here!” he called.
Intending to climb down, he turned around, and stopped. Three military-green backpacks lay in the corner of the tower furthest from the stairs. Around them were scattered ammunition casings, and the sets of wire mesh that must have covered the glass-less windows. The bags weren’t what arrested his attention. Behind them was a radio set with a thin coil of wire extending out of the window. The set was a foot square, six inches deep, and attached to a separate battery pack. He had no idea if its size was a function of age, or a function of its range, but it was a worrying sight that surely had only one meaning.
He grabbed the packs, and carried them downstairs.
Chapter 20 - The Bells. The Bells…
L’Eglise de Notre Dame, Creil
Bill rubbed his jaw. He’d been punched before, but never so hard. His entire head ached, and the feeling was spreading down his body. Intending to stand up, he reached down and put his hand into a pool of still warm blood. He wanted to swear, but didn’t want to move his mouth. He pulled himself to his feet, and found them unsteady. A soft gong reverberated from above, followed by a shout of “Clear up here!”
The bell worked. That was a start. He staggered over to the door by which he’d entered, a side entrance at the right and rear of the church. A hole had already been hacked through the thick woodwork, presumably by the people they’d just killed. Looking around for a way to secure it, he came up with no better option than a barricade. At least that was something with which he’d had too much experience.
He was still dragging the first pew across the floor when Chester appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
“Let me give you a hand,” Chester said, grabbing the other end. Together, they hauled it in front of the door. “How’s your face?”
“Ungh,” Bill mumbled. He tried again. “Sore.”
“Ah. The bell seems to work. That’s the good news.”
“There’s…” Bill winced. Rolling his tongue around his mouth, he found two of his molars were loose. “There’s bad?” he mumbled.
“They had three bags. Three backpacks.”
“Ah.” Bill walked over to the rifle, picked it up, checked the magazine, then slung the gun on his back.
“Yeah,” Chester said. “Figure that’s all we can do. Do you have any shotgun shells left?”
Bill fished in his pockets, found a single handful, and passed them over with an apologetic shrug.
“It’s enough. It’ll do,” Chester said. “Might not be a third person, of course. Or that third person might be somewhere deep in the town. That’s not the worst of it.” They picked up another pew. “There’s a radio up there, with an aerial running outside.”
“Splains,” Bill began, and winced.
“Explains why they were here, in the bell-tower?” Chester said. “That’s what I thought. They wanted the elevation for the radio. The good news on that score is that ringing the bell wasn’t part of their plans, so we can go ahead and do that without worrying it’ll be the signal for some fresh nightmare to commence. Question is who were they radioing, someone on the island, or someone further away?” They pushed the pew into position. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve got the feeling that Claire and the professor weren’t telling us the full story. I don’t think they’re lying, not exactly, but they’re being deliberately cautious about what they share.”
“Agreed,” Bill said as they picked up another pew.
“A radio set, and that these people were communicating with someone, puts a different complexion on all that happened on that island. Can’t say it’s any more illuminating.”
Bill looked at his wrist, then tapped his watch. “Broken,” he said with another wince.
Chester looked at his own. “Mine, too. I’d say we’re about ten, twenty minutes behind schedule. Why don’t you start ringing the bell? I’ll finish up here. We’ll have at least ten minutes before the undead come.”
Chester had brought the three bags down from the bell-platform, and had left them at the bottom of the rickety staircase. Bill quickly searched them in turn, finding six spare magazines for the assault rifle. The rest of the gear was uselessly mundane. Cutlery, tin mugs, water bottles, a few items of clothing, and a few looted trinkets. That each bag contained cutlery and mugs confirmed there had been three people here. Perhaps the third man had died. It didn’t matter. Once the bell began to sound, the undead would come, the island could be re-supplied, and he could head for the coast. Hopefully.
He laid the magazines on the step, kicked the bags out of the way, and then pulled on the rope. It was heavier than he expected. It took him two pulls before the clapper softly gonged against the bell. He pulled again, and got a louder tolling that caused a vibrating spike of pain to arc across the back of his battered head. Wincing, he pulled again. And again. And again.
“The doors are secure!” Chester called over the echoing bell. “I didn’t bother with the vestry. The way the house is laid out, the undead won’t get into the church from that direction.”
Bill nodded, only half sure he’d heard him correctly over the sound of the bell.
“You want me to take over?” Chester asked, motioning at the rope.
On the downward swing, Bill let go, and pointed up the stairs.
“Check on the undead. Got it,” Chester said, and clambered up the stairs once more.
Bill concentrated on the rope, trying to ignore the sound, and the growing throbbing in his temples. He fixed his mind on the radio. He’d not seen one in the watchtower, nor had there been one in the house by the river. That didn’t mean those people hadn’t had one. That didn’t explain why they had a radio in the first place. What had the thugs’ plan been? The presence of a radio suggested there was a plan. He pulled the rope down. Why had they lured the undead to surround the island? To find out where the ammunition was hidden? But if they already knew it was at the airfield, it wouldn’t have taken long to locate. No, too many pieces were missing, and the puzzle was only a distraction from their real task. The salvation of Belfast lay here in France, but the future of these French survivors lay in Ireland. He had to reach the coast.
Chester came back down the stairs. “They’re here!” he yelled above the bell’s sonorous din. “Zombies. They’re at the wall ringing the church. About sixty already. More coming from the town. It’s working. Here.” He took hold of the rope. “Go and take a look for yourself.”
At the top of the stairs, the noise from the bell was disorientating, and made counting the undead difficult, but there were already over a hundred. More approached from the direction of the island. Their numbers were greater around the wall to the west, but scores approached from every other point of the compass.
They’d almost left it too late. The undead had already begun to disperse through the town. Again, he thought of the questions he’d not asked the professor. At the top of the list was for how long had music played from those trucks luring the undead to the island. Right beneath it was where the undead had come from if the survivors had been living on the island for so long, rarely seeing more than a zombie or two each day. He turned toward where he thought the plane had crashed. There was no sign of it, nor of any landmark that might indicate how far away it, or Starwind’s watchtower, was. Soon after they’d crashed, hundreds of zombies had gathered by the plane. Where had they come from? If how was a better question than where, the answer had to be Dernier. Was the radio the method? Was this gang in communication with some other, larger group? If the islanders had more than one boat, why had so few come on this re-supply mission? Why had Claire and the professor been forced to detour inland to recruit Starwind and her people? Once resupplied, would the survivors leave the island, venturing into the town to kill the undead? Would they remain behind their walls?
Time would provide the answers. The greatest number of undead were to the west. Five deep at the densest point, and that was only twenty metres from the gate through which he and Chest
er had entered. A gate that they had not re-secured. Not that it mattered. A gate wide enough for a hearse was situated on the northern side of the churchyard, and it was open. Zombies were already traipsing between the tombstones. By now some must have reached the church itself, lost to view, their beating fists inaudible over the echoing chimes.
At the perimeter wall, sheer numbers pushed zombies over the low stone barrier, while even more edged towards the gate. He unslung the rifle, balancing it on the open window. He closed one eye, lining up the sights with the largest portion of the pack. He was sure he could hit them, but with each chime, his head shook, his eye reflexively blinked. Yes, he could shoot them, but doubted he could hit their heads. He lowered the rifle, and in time to see a chunk of masonry fall from the perimeter wall. A zombie followed it over and into the church’s grounds, falling flat on its face. As it scrambled to get up, a five-foot section of wall crumbled, spilling bricks on top of the fallen creature. More creatures followed. They had less time than he’d thought. He went downstairs to wait for the doors to break.
Chester raised his eyebrows and nodded his head towards the main door. Bill shrugged. He collected the six magazines he’d placed on the stairs, cramming them into one of the packs. A moment more, and he’d sorted through the meagre scraps of food and added the three water bottles. When he looked up, Chester gave him a quizzical look. Again, Bill shrugged. Their choices were limited, but if the worst happened, it would happen quickly. He tied the bag closed, slung it over his shoulders, and cinched the straps tight. He checked that his machete and the pistol were secure, picked up the rifle, and then took up station by the main doors. It all came down to whether they broke before Sergeant Khan arrived.
They did.
The side entrance was the weak point. As the mass of the undead grew, the weight of bodies pushed against the door that, in turn pushed against the mass of pews they’d thrown in front. The door shook and juddered open, wide enough for a skeletal hand to curl around the frame. Bill slammed his foot into the pews. In turn, they slammed against the door, crushing the hand. Black pus splattered the frame and the pews, but a second later the door shuddered open again, and the rest of the creature’s arm slid through.
Bill stepped back, raising the rifle, biding his time. The side entrance was the weak point, but the processional door was shaking, too. It appeared to be a sturdier construction, but he was mindful of the facade around the pillars and the altar; appearances weren’t to be trusted.
The door edged open another inch. Bill raised the rifle, taking a guess at where the first head would appear. Twenty seconds later, he was proved almost right. He dropped the rifle a fraction. The bullet slammed between two clumps of ragged brown hair. The zombie fell, but with its arm and shoulders inside, preventing the door from closing. The undead behind trampled the corpse as they pushed and shoved, clawed and kicked.
The next gong from the bell was softer than the preceding one, and then the tolling ceased, replaced with a moment of equally deafening silence before Bill’s hearing adjusted, and the churning roar of the undead outside came into focus.
“I don’t know about you, but my head’s pounding,” Chester said. “Do you reckon enough have heard it?”
Bill was too busy lining up his shot to answer. An undead woman had squeezed her head and shoulders through the door, but thrashed up and down, bucking too fast for him to fire. Finally he did, and missed. The bullet slammed into the creature’s neck. The zombie didn’t pause as it writhed up and down. The wound tore wider. The trickle of black pus grew to a torrent until Bill fired again. This time his aim was true. The creature slumped to the floor. Its corpse was shunted a foot inside as another zombie pushed its way into the breach.
“A few minutes and they’ll break through,” Bill said. “Are you ready for this?”
Chester raised the shotgun. “Sometimes I try to remember what a quiet life was.”
Bill paced forwards until he was eight feet from the door. The grasping zombie stretched out a clawing hand towards him. Bill fired. Its head exploded, spraying gore and bone across the wall. Its body fell, joining that of its fallen comrade. There was now a foot-wide gap between door and wall. Bill flipped the selector switch to fully automatic and fired, emptying half the magazine’s bullets into the writhing gloom beyond. He took another step forward and fired the remaining bullets, before retreating back to Chester.
“There’s too many,” he said, slotting a fresh magazine into place. “Way too many.”
“Best save the ammo, then,” Chester said, slinging the shotgun as he stomped forward. He took hold of the broken pews and pushed. Wood creaked. A moment later, bone crunched as the corpses were pushed between door and wall. Chester turned around, bracing his back against the pews. “I don’t suppose you saw the sergeant when you were upstairs?”
“Fraid not,” Bill said.
“He’ll come,” Chester said. “He’s a good man, Sergeant Khan. From what I saw in Birmingham, we can trust Locke not to be too far behind.” From outside came a metallic screech. “That didn’t sound good,” Chester said. “How long do you want to give it before we retreat up the tower?”
“I don’t think we will,” Bill said. “That stairwell is made of scaffolding, with only a handful of bolts holding it in place. Did you see that platform at the top? It’s balanced on the scaffolding, not attached to the wall. When a few dozen thrashing undead get into the bell-tower, it’ll all come tumbling down. We could perch on the ledges by the window, but the stone surrounding the pillars, and on the altar, is just a ceramic facade. If the bell-tower’s the same, it could collapse before help arrives.”
The door jerked towards the pews which, in turn, shook. Chester pushed back. “I’m… I’m as big a fan of the desperate last stand as the next bloke, but we’ll die quickly if… if we fight them here.”
“Agreed,” Bill said, raising the rifle as a hand, then an arm, then a shoulder snaked around the door. “I say we retreat to the church-house. Maybe we can get out the other side, escape through the cemetery. If not, we try for the roof, wait it out up there.”
“Do you—” Chester began, but was interrupted by a metallic screech, then a sharp crack and a sharper pop as the hinges were torn from their bolts. The door sagged forwards. Around the fractured frame appeared a writhing mass of decaying hands and arms, heads and shoulders.
“Go! The house!” Bill said.
Chester spun around, unslung the shotgun, and raised it to his shoulder, but he held his fire as he stalked backward down the church’s central aisle. Bill fired. There were too many targets to miss, and too many zombies for it to matter. With the door now on its side, it became a ram with which the undead pushed the stacks of pews out of the way. The undead spilled into the church. Bill ran, following Chester back to the altar.
“There are times I wish I could call in an airstrike,” Bill said as the creatures flooded through the broken door, trampling the pews and each other in their attempt to reach their prey.
They ran through the door to the vestry and slammed it closed.
“There’s nothing to secure it with,” Chester said.
“Should have considered this,” Bill said. “It’s too late now.”
They left the vestry behind and re-entered the house, again closing the doors behind them. They climbed the stairs to the landing, and kept going up.
Where below the colour scheme was dark and subdued, on the second floor it was bright and airy. The doors weren’t polished wood, but painted white, their handles ceramic rather than brass. The walls were cream-coloured, nearly matching the pale carpet, and covered in abstract paintings rather than stern-faced photographs. There were similarities with below, however, in that the upstairs consisted of a long corridor with a window at one end, a door at the other, and other doors leading off, all closed.
“And now we can breathe,” Chester said, pushing the stairwell door closed. He walked to the window, but stayed a few feet back from it. “It looks
bad to me. What do you think?”
Bill walked over to join him. “It’s not great. I’d say about fifty zombies immediately below, more in the cemetery. Mostly heading towards the bell-tower. Call that a couple of hundred. There’s even more around the wall. Based on what I saw up in the tower, we’ve the better part of a thousand zombies close by.”
“That many?” Chester said. “Then they really had dispersed through the town. You think Dernier’s people were behind that? I do. Not that it matters.”
A muffled bang echoed inside the church, shaking the building.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Bill said. “We’ve two options, climb onto the roof, or make a run for it. Personally, I’m not a fan of hoping that help comes.”
“Nope, like old George Tull says, we’re the help that comes to others. Any help coming to us will have to kill all those undead first. Aside from the risk of a stray bullet, I’m not sure the building will last that long.”
“Run, then?” Bill asked.
“Run,” Chester said. “And set fire to the building first. We might be able to save ourselves some grief down the road.”
“Then we need sheets for ropes,” Bill said. “You check the rooms on that side of the corridor, I’ll take this side.”
The nearest door opened on to a bedroom with a narrow window, too small to easily climb out of. He quickly stripped the bed, throwing the sheets out into the corridor before turning a quick three-sixty in search of something better down which they could climb. He saw nothing. He left the room, moving to the next. It was dark. The curtains were closed. He stood in the doorway, blinking as he adjusted to the gloom, and so almost didn’t see the figure. He stepped back as a knife slashed through the air where his neck had been.
“Woah! Who are you!” he said, the words reflexive, but the only reply came from the knife, hurled at him. He dived backwards, but the knife went wide, thudding into the hallway’s plasterwork. He rolled across the floor, unslinging the rifle from his back, but the thug was faster. Bullets thudded through the wall, two feet from the ground. Bill rolled away from the door, out of sight, but far from out of danger as another dozen shots tore through plaster and paint.
