Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2

by K. Bartholomew

  The boat pulled in at Belfast and upon disembarkation, I immediately felt my superiority amongst the locals. As a general rule, I’m tall and was the envy of the boys in the Eton changing rooms. At six foot, I loomed over all my peers and most of my elders. But here, in Belfast, as I examined their malnourished forms and bony faces, they in turn probed me, giving admiring glances as to the cut of my cloth, the women in particular, and weren’t afraid to let me know it through overt eye contact and the occasional extroverted grin.

  Amongst them, there was a predominance of ginger which made me recall the young fag Hulbert at Eton, who Clayton and I used to stretch on our rack until he passed out through sheer pain. At least Hulbert hadn’t complained to Old Tubs and had taken it like a man and it was indeed noted that after that, he became a better fast bowler at cricket on account of the improved trajectory of his throwing arm.

  But the Irish were different to the English in other ways. Where we eschewed small talk, other forms of conversation and most types of physical contact, save for the occasional pub brawl, the Irish lazed about in the streets actually talking to one another and seemed, for the most part, to enjoy each other’s company.

  Naturally, I didn’t speak to any of them, and damned if I could understand them anyway, but I did wonder why so many of them were loafing about at the docks with bags packed considering there were no boats leaving.

  Or more specifically, boats were leaving, only, passengers weren’t being permitted to board and there was a force of bobbies brandishing truncheons in an effort at keeping order. A few people screamed abuse at the police but I didn’t have time to wait around to watch the escalation.

  I boarded a carriage bound for Londonderry and was stunned by the low price. My allowance would enable me to live well here but regardless, I bartered the man down further given I suspected he tried swindling me and in the cloth that I donned, along with my imposing figure, he didn’t put up much of an argument.

  After securing my baggage, I settled in for the seventy mile ride along bumpy cobbles, broken roads and mud paths passing through the occasional rundown village with cows, sheep and chickens occupying the same living space as the people.

  The weary villagers gaped with toothless expressions as we clattered through on our northwestern path, the further we progressed, the more desolate and depressing it got until entire settlements seemed, to the cursory glance, to have been abandoned. This was a problem because I was hungry and hoped to find a tavern for some ale and sustenance, alas, none were forthcoming. If the country continued like this, my earlier fears of encountering anti-British rabble rousers would prove unfounded. How many of the Irish had emigrated to England and other places?

  Not once throughout the drive did we pass any coaches heading in the same direction but the closer we got to Londonderry, the more coaches came rattling the other way, filled to the seams with screaming children, the horses sweating and weary and the passengers, through the window, exchanging more of those funny toothless looks I was fast becoming accustomed to. At one point I stuck my head out from the window, only for my driver to shout something at me in unintelligible Mick.

  We approached the city next morning, having spent a freezing cold night inside the coach cabin atop a huge hill with a drunken Irish driver twitching nervously at every noise from the outside. He tried explaining his problem, or so I assumed, but damned if I could understand.

  The city walls stood wide, tall and imposing and filled me with fuzzy feelings knowing that should there be any sectarian violence between Catholics and Protestants, or either of those against the English, I’d be safe and secure behind them and I made sure to spot one especially formidable bastion far away from the city’s main gates which, should it be necessary, I could bolt towards before cowering behind my men. After all, what was the point in being a captain, if you didn’t use your company for protection?

  Londonderry, supposedly the fourth largest city in Ireland could have been anything but. To my eyes it looked similar to Belfast except it lacked the early morning hustle and bustle you’d expect of a populated city. Businesses lay empty, dingy and cramped rows of back to back terracing that should’ve housed many, didn’t, save for the usual idlers who leaned against walls waiting for something and nothing. The main thoroughfares were practically empty of all life and the desolation I’d experienced in the villages on the drive west had followed through into the city. In parts it looked like nature was attempting to reclaim what once belonged to it. Grass, weeds, plants and even small trees had sprung from the dirt roads where birds made their nests. In truth, Londonderry almost resembled a ghost town, stripped of all but a last remaining token population.

  It was a relief to finally arrive at the barracks, which was saying something, and the coach rumbled through the gates and along the cobbled approach as I scanned the large garrison that would be my place of employment.

  In comparison, the barracks were lively with small knots of cavalrymen gathering for a smoke, trotting horses around for exercise, rushing about for some such reason and at the brick walls by the far side, one squad of cavalry assembled in preparation for a drill before charging across the courtyard, sabres held aloft to plunge them into padded posts at the far end.

  I’d have fun here - Just so long as no war broke out.

  With the essentials of life to take care of first, I left my baggage in the officer’s mess before braving the town in search of accommodation.

  The nicer part of Londonderry was only a short walk from the barracks and I came to a detached abode with a ‘Bed and Board’ sign hanging lopsided from a window. I was shown inside by a man who spoke to the air above my head in another one of those indecipherable accents.

  “Room an’ meals fur foyve poynds a mont’.”

  After demanding he repeat himself several times, I gave him my reply.

  “Five bloody pounds? The devil with it…” I pointed outside the cracked window, “…have you seen the place? I could find board anywhere and they’d be all the more glad for it. Four pounds a month or I’ll take my business to one of the hundreds of other empty establishments.”

  He accepted and, under the threat of my riding crop, I put him immediately to work fetching my baggage from the barracks. This was a mistake because I was hungry but he returned twenty minutes later whence he was then put to the task of making breakfast.

  A bowl of carrot broth and some bread was placed before me, which to my credit, I tasted. It wasn’t that it was bad, but I was a soldier dammit and would require a soldier’s bounty.

  “I don’t know what the devil you’re playing at, Mr…um?”

  “…Maguire.”

  “Maguire…but this will not do at all. Now listen here…” the bean pole tried to interject but I shouted above him, “…I’m an Englishman from a grand country estate in Sussex and we’re used to breakfasting on ham, on eggs, on proper toast…do you understand me? Some bacon would be good if you have it…oh and some fresh coffee too. Bigod but we were fed better than this rubbish even at Eton. Now, I’ll let you off on this occasion, on account of us not understanding each other, but tomorrow I’d like that of which I’ve just stated.”

  “Mr Strapper, sir…” he continued, but I’d be damned if I could understand a single word of it, though I could tell with his arms waving about the way they did he was unable to comply with my request.

  I pushed the soup away and found a nearby tavern that served something that could almost be described as a decent English.

  I was fast learning about life in Ireland because I decided to summon the chef to my table and offered him employment with a twenty percent increase on what he was already earning. He accepted on the spot and I told him that from now on he’d be cooking for me, to mind out of my way when I had lady company, to serve my meals on time lest he take a whipping and that when he goes to the butchers to ask only for the very best cuts of meat.

  It was middle of the afternoon when I arrived back in the mess in time to me
et some of my fellow officers. A notice on the message board had requested that the new intake be here to meet the colonel and now, spanking in my fresh uniform, I was standing with a small glass of ale when the old bugger entered.

  Every eye in the room clamped onto him.

  There he was - My commanding officer.

  The first thing you couldn’t help but notice was the limp, but what was it? Did he fall off his horse, receive a bullet wound or trip descending the stairs? And the limp was so severe it had somehow distracted me from his primary feature - That ridiculous moustache that stretched far beyond what physics deemed possible and obviously contained copious quantities of tar to keep it that way, and sure put my new cavalry whiskers to shame. He spoke, or rather shouted, as though he’d once stood next to an exploding cannon - In fact that was probably what happened because what I saw next confirmed to me, beyond any doubt, his madness.

  His uniform was adorned with medals and I squinted my eyes for a better look at one in particular, a small iron cross which had imprinted the words ‘For Valour.’

  It was a Victoria Cross!

  And far from being awestruck that my colonel was one of the bravest men in the army, instead I experienced the same sensation I had the first time I went swimming as a child and thought I was drowning. Because what we had here was a genuine lunatic who’d somehow been given command over us. A man who’d throw his battalion at the enemy for the sake of the mission. A man who wouldn’t think twice before ordering his men to charge at enemy cavalry. A real fighting bastard. All this, and I hadn’t yet even spoken to the man.

  Whilst the colonel made his way round the new intake, I tried to distract my mind from my trembling knees by turning my attention toward my fellows, in search of one saviour who might be a likeminded individual, another who was here largely against his will. It never harms to be around one’s own in unfamiliar situations.

  Between us there were four lieutenants, two captains and even one who’d purchased a full majority, a chubby man in his mid twenties with glasses and soft features who didn’t look like he’d stand one minute against enemy cavalry. For some reason I was put off acquainting myself with him, probably on account of his superiority, at least considering rank anyway.

  But my eye did linger over one particular ginger captain whose uniform wasn’t quite as pressed as the rest, who didn’t stand with the same air of assurance and cool. Quite the contrary in fact, as his head hung like he had little interest in being here. His red mutton chop sideburns gave him a look of distinction and authority, but if not for those he could have been any likely lad you’d find in London’s East End, touting to shine your shoes for a penny. He was my man alright and the fact we were both captains would put us on an even footing.

  “Captain Strapper.” I held out my hand to the man whilst keeping one eye on the approaching lunatic.

  He looked up and took my hand. “Strapper?” He twitched, “an unusual name that I think I envy, it sure beats Dolan.” It was a roundabout way of introducing himself, but I’d take it. We glanced at the colonel together as he moved one officer down the line and I wondered if, like mine, Dolan’s intestines were also dissolving within him. “I must say, I’m nervous as all shite bein’ here, so I am.”

  I’d chosen well, but I couldn’t risk having him know I was just like him “Why? There’s no war and…” and here I decided to waste no time in feeling him out a little further, “…and even in the unlikely event of one breaking out, I fully intend on selling my commission and taking the first boat back to England.” And that was no word of a lie.

  He squinted and twitched again, a trait that was already beginning to annoy me. “War? What in da bejesus have yee taken?”

  I CRINGED as Melville adjusted his position. “Will you keep still! Not only are you rubbing against me, but you’re interrupting my flow, damn your eyes.”

  Above our heads Lady Fitzgibbon squealed with delight and my friend waited for her to settle down before speaking. “And quite remarkable a flow so far it is, and that you made it all the way to Londonderry without realising the entire country was undergoing an apocalypse, quite remarkable.” He shook his head with sarcastic admiration at my sheer lack of awareness.

  I grimaced at the memory I was about to regurgitate for no better reason than to pass the time whilst we waited out the rogering above. “Looking back, I should have sold my commission right there, but who’d have been crazy enough to take it?” I thought about Dolan, his stupid twitching face and sideburns. “The clues were there but it wasn’t until Dolan asked me ‘what in da bejeesus have yee taken?’ when my inbuilt coward’s advanced alarm system began ringing in my head.”

  Melville touched my arm. “That’s what I was meaning to say…your Irish accent is atrocious, so why don’t you leave it out of the story from now on?”

  “Oh charming, sir.” I cringed again. “And then I met the the bloody colonel…”

  Colonel Lord John Charles Henry Fitzgibbon, VC

  To this day, it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever said and that I’d said it to none other than the commander of the regiment about summed it up. And not only did my opening words to the commanding officer permanently alienate him from me, on some levels, it alienated my fellow officers too - Word gets round, you see, especially when an insensitive young English upstart arrives in an already hostile part of the Empire and begins spouting his mouth with little or no knowledge of recent events or the place he’s at - Personally, I blame Eton. And the whole damned business probably cost me a promotion too.

  Ironically, it was this moment, along with many others, that played its part in raising me to my present lofty position within the nations hearts - If only they knew the truth.

  “Ah, my boy, you must be our English lad…can tell you apart like balls on a bulldog, what?” He clapped me on the shoulder as my mind went fuzzy and all I could stare at was the VC pinned to his breast, evidence to his madness, which for some ungodly reason, he wore with pride. “Compliments on the whiskers, you’ll drive the ladies wild haw…haw…haw. And that you chose us and came all the way here of your own volition, you must be by far the bravest man in the room, what? Tell me, my boy…how was the journey?”

  And then I opened my big mouth. “To be honest, sir, I found it a bit dead.”

  One of the lieutenants absolutely dropped his glass with a smash as the entire mess descended into a deafening silence.

  “Oh bejesus.” Whimpered another and even Dolan stepped away from me.

  Then I felt the colonel’s hand, still clasped around my shoulder, which literally shook with what could only be described as rage that continued to boil within him - Like I said, he had it in for me right from the start.

  By now it was clear I’d said something because at least a minute had past and it was beginning to get a little awkward. Then, finally, the colonel let me have it…

  “You fucking ignorant brute!” In contrast to his usual thundery voice, this was spoken through gritted teeth and to this day is the quietest I’ve ever heard him speak. “You complete fucking ignorant brute of a heartless English animal.”

  And I never knew if he was even aware as to the pain he caused my shoulder, which to this day still affects my sword swing - Not that I use it much.

  Thankfully he let go and wobbled from the mess for an intermission, mumbling something on the way out about everybody staying put and leaving me with a roomful of unsympathetic fellows, and myself somewhat confused.

  Suddenly, I found myself as popular as a debt collector turning up to a wedding and it took ten minutes to work up the courage to ask the fat major just what it was I’d supposedly said.

  “Bit of a sensitive one, aint he, for a VC?”

  He plonked a fresh ale down in front of me and took a nearby seat at the table as the others reluctantly did the same. “Captain Strapper, you’re young and I can see you’re probably not filled in on current events.”

  “Current events?” I shrugged and he exhaled,
rubbing his forehead.

  “We’re…that is, the whole of Ireland, is still recovering from the potato famine. You are aware of this yes?” Blankness from me. “One million deaths? Another million had to leave? That’s a quarter of our population we’re down by? And nothing of this is familiar to you?”

  They may have mentioned something about it at Eton, but I was young and hadn’t much cared at the time. Under the circumstances, I thought best to say nothing and to simply allow the major to continue.

  “Colonel Fitzgibbon,” and he spoke the name with reverence, “as with the rest of us, lost many members of his family. And you, Captain Strapper, made light of it.”

  I wasn’t quite sure at this stage what to make of it all. How could I be blamed for a simple ignorance? Surely he wouldn’t hold it against me forever? Surely?

  “But don’t you worry, because from what I hear about the colonel, he’s a fair man, a good man and above all a brave man, whom we should all attempt to emulate.”

  There it was again and my belly sounded the alarm. And it was saying something, when even the fat major, who I’d earlier put down as a man too soft to last, was beginning to sound just as psychotic as Fitzgibbon himself.

  “I’m sorry, Major, what’s your name?”

  “Major Murphy.” And he held out a damp plump hand which I had to clasp out of decency, whilst making a mental note to avoid him at all costs.

  “Tell me, Major…Colonel Fitzgibbon,” and I pointed to my breast, “he has a VC?”

  The chubby faced bespectacled Murphy looked up to the heavens as he spoke. “Indeed…won the iron at the Charge of the Light Brigade, although he was a mere captain at the time, just like you, Strapper…so there’s hope for us all. Lost half the regiment and nearly all the officers, so naturally, he got bumped to colonel. Took shrapnel to the leg too…never even came off his horse…killed several Ruskies with his sword whilst half bleeding to death, rescued a brigadier-general…returned to the British lines and refused medical attention until all his men had been treated first.” And now his eyes were watering with admiration. “That is our colonel and we should all be proud to serve under him.”