I glanced around the captivated table, each head, even Dolan’s, nodding along like they were all on some kind of opiate.
I had genuinely arrived at Bedlam and had real reason to fear for my wellbeing. At least I could be thankful there was no war on - That at least was something.
He pulled his chair closer. “Captain, I can see it in your face…you’re upset about having caused him offence. But if the colonel admires anything, it’s bravery…and you Jack…if I may call you Jack? You Jack, merely by your being here, with us, at this time, have already demonstrated such bravery as the rest of us mere mortals at this table can only hope to model ourselves upon.”
This was the second strange reference to my supposed bravery in only the short time I’d been in this room and subconsciously, I scanned the table for some kind of drug they’d all been taking.
I was almost too afraid to ask. “I’m sorry, bravery?”
He clasped his hands together, again looking to the heavens. “Oh, Jack…and I see you’re modest too. Did you hear that boys? Our English friend thinks nothing of traveling to Ireland to help us in our most dire hour of need. And as I look about the room, I see no other English, or anyone who aint Irish. Only you Jack.”
It looked like he’d forgiven my earlier insensitivity, and although I had not the slightest idea as to what he was blathering about, my eyes, seemingly of their own accord, began scouring the room for the nearest exit.
“And yes, although you may have deeply offended the colonel, I’m sure if ever there was a man who could see his way to overlooking your indiscretion, then it’s he. After all…there are special considerations that must be made for our brave English friend.”
I could see it in all their bright and glossy eyes. Gazing at me like Fitzgibbon wasn’t the only VC around here and not knowing what in all of Ireland Murphy was even talking about and becoming more alarmed by the second, I had no choice other than to seek clarification or else go insane. “Brave? How hard can it be to recruit local likely lads for the regiment?”
The room flared into laughter, with two or three of them slapping the table and spilling ale over their glasses. Murphy patted me on the back with a clammy hand.
“You hear that boys? And he has a sense of humour to boot. A sense of humour fit for an honorary Irishman. You’ll fit in here just great, Jack.” He leaned back and raised his glass. “Recruiting, says he. Why, half the remaining young men have left for England or America…and who could blame them? But of course you already knew all this, which is why you’re risking your life to help a neighbour in the first place.” Now the drunk placed his arm around me, pulling me close. “When we few remained behind to fight, our countrymen ran the other way, but you Jack, you were the only one who sailed against the flow, against the tide, who came to Ireland to fight. You truly are a stout fellow.”
It was all rather odd because my uncle had assured me there was no war and wasn’t likely to be one in the future either. It was that very guarantee that had persuaded me to sign up in the first place, otherwise right now I’d be knee deep in the whores of Soho with Ireland the very last thing on my mind. Yet here were these drunken Irish, to the man, carrying on like we were days away from facing some sort of an invasion force.
But if these imbeciles foolishly wanted to believe that I was something special around here, then I wouldn’t deter nor dissuade them, especially if it would make life that little bit easier. Having already alienated the colonel, I needed every friend I could get.
Since we were all joking around with each other, I thought I’d play along. “That’s me, Major, but please, remind me…who again are we supposedly at war against?”
“Oh, my dear Jack, you drink too much and aren’t used to Irish ale…why, the famine victims returned…we’re at war with the dead of course.” He said it with such a straight face which, rather than the words themselves, is what forced me to commence laughter.
And my laughing, whilst the rest of the room remained, for the first time in several minutes solemn, was the very moment Fitzgibbon chose to limp back into the mess with the rest of the regimental officers in tow.
He coughed as I almost choked and he took his seat at the head of the table in silence, not looking my way once. The rest of the officers either sat or stood against the walls, a mixture of lieutenants, captains and at least one other major. In total there were fifteen of us, which for a cavalry battalion was seriously understrength and if this was all we could show for, I wondered how many fighting troopers still remained after the famine and the Charge for us to command.
I surveyed the rest of the fellows, half of whom had facial cuts or else faces like Easter Island stone statues. One particular captain had the look of a psychotic about him, who’d seen too much, killed too many and had all the humour driven out from him, his blond cavalry whiskers and eye patch only adding to the menace - I made a mental note to avoid him at all costs, doubtless another ‘hero’ who’d think nothing of charging his horse, headlong into a screaming mass of bayonet points. I trained my ears his way when the chap to his side addressed him as Captain Lynch.
From the start, the colonel was all business as the mess waiter distributed small glasses of sherry before placing a platter of bread and some sort of Irish cheese in the table’s centre.
“For the benefit of our established officers, let me introduce the fresh faces; we have Lieutenants Doyle, O’Brien and Flanagan, Major Murphy and Captains Dolan and Strapper.” For some reason he accented the ‘a’ in my name, dropping the volume slightly as he did. The two officers closest sat with a large gap between, having evidently learned not to sit too close to the resounding horn who held command.
He continued speaking, his moustache sitting over his lip like an iron bar. “Now, let’s not beat about the damned bush, what? No time for nonsense and small talk…our scouts have spotted some dead out on the road to Strabane…damned things wandered in from the woods, attacked a village, cleaned it out then disappeared back amongst the planks. Not many of them supposedly…we’re talking no more than a half dozen at most…should be easy pickings even for the new intake, which is why I’m sending out Captain Strapper with number six company…oh and you Lieutenant Sheehan…be a good man and accompany him, would you…show him the way, what?”
Now, anyone who knew me would assume at this moment that my vital organs would be paralysed through sheer terror, rendering me incapable of carrying out the order or even standing from my seat. But I remembered the stories my father used to tell me of the Irish, the silly games they’d play with each other, especially when anybody new joined the gang. Granted, they usually involved getting irreparably drunk before sticking them in the ground overnight with only the heads poking out - It was a way of breaking in the new boy, an initiation of sorts, endear him with the lads. And while yes, I did think that riding to Strabane in search of imaginary dead people was a little bit crass, not to mention surprising, being mindful that the colonel had no sense of humour when it came to the word ‘dead’, and that the Irish were running out of initiation ideas, it could be a lot worse, so I’d be happy to go along with it anyway, especially considering all it’d ultimately involve would be a peaceful ride through the country.
The colonel told us to get to it and the meeting was adjourned.
I sighed but felt in high spirits as we went to find some, um, dead.
Initiation
As we waited for our men to assemble, Lieutenant Sheehan spent the time practicing his sword arm, thrusting it into and against the padded post as sawdust wafted out into the breeze. He impressed me with his physical capabilities which came from a lean and practiced frame, a handy man to have around in a tavern brawl but probably overkill for today’s task. His uniform was tattered, patched in places and somewhat faded, evidence not only to the regiment’s falling standards but also that he was a poor man and should therefore probably not be trusted. Though for whatever reason I just couldn’t mistrust the lieutenant. He had one of those ope
n and friendly faces that always smiled, green eyes and closely cropped red facial hair. He’d been with the 8th since several years before the Crimean War - Another survivor of the Charge.
“My still being a mere lieutenant is mainly because I lacked the funds to purchase a captaincy, but don’t worry, old boy, I bear you no malice for leapfrogging me…I wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. Even after the Charge when they were throwing out promotions willy nilly, I never wanted it. Just give me a horse, a blade and a few enemy and I’m happy.” He plucked at the black sash that ran diagonally down his torso, one of which we all had. “This is what I fight for…the regiment, The Crossbelts.” Yet another nut job to whom I couldn’t relate. “You’re not thinking of warming up?” He thrusted again at the post. “It’ll come in handy when the action starts.”
My eyes squinted in the direction of the pristine horsemen who trotted towards us, six troopers on six horses - Impressive as they were, was that it? “Oh, Lieutenant, as much as I admire your enthusiasm and abilities, I never usually warm up before a fight.” And especially not before an imaginary one.
He regarded me briefly with admiration before straightening his helmet. “Time to go, Captain.”
I motioned with my hand for him to hold on and, since this was one big stupid adventure, and a joke on me, I decided to give a little something back and raised my voice toward the newcomers. “Oh dear me, I’ve never seen such a disgraceful bunch of dirty soldiers in all my life. Your uniforms are filthy and your horses stink like, um, horses. You’d never get away with it in England. I just hope you can all fight better than you look.” I shook my head for effect as they each to the man looked down at the ground and fiddled with their gloves. “Don’t you ever let me catch you in this state again or it’ll be the lash, and I’ll only be too happy to administer your thrashing myself.”
When I turned back round, Lieutenant Sheehan’s mouth gaped open and he was giving me another one of those admiring glances. “Sir, you just berated six veterans of the Charge.”
I shook my head, it was all good fun. “They’ll learn.”
We trotted in double file, myself and Sheehan leading the small column out the barracks, through the city gates and onto the road south in the direction of some place named Strabane.
“At about what time should I be on guard for these, um, dead people walking around the place?” I asked with a twinkle in my eye.
“Can’t wait to get stuck in, aye? That’s the spirit.” He pulled the same smirk as before, when I’d impressed him at the barracks. “I must say, sir, I’ve fought against Ruskies, Chinks and even my fellow Paddies, and let me tell you this, I’d take any one of ‘em in place of a dead man any day of the year. I’d heard about your bravery, sir, but this…all I can say is…it’ll be an honour to serve alongside you in our struggle.”
He’d bring me to tears soon. “Just want to do my duty, Sheehan.”
“Incredible. And you’re not nervous at all, are you?”
I gave him a playful wink. “Just thinking about the whore I’ll be boarding tonight.”
For the next ten minutes I could swear he made repeated glances my way as we entered the bleak moorland.
And the moorland was bleak. The mud path snaking through the hills and flats alike, evidence to the workmanship of the drunken Paddy, made the journey unnecessarily long. We passed through a village with a stoney path, which Sheehan named as Stoneypath, and each of the men clipped through with hands on sword hilts, such were the lengths they were willing to play along with my breaking in.
About half the houses were deserted, the other half with a combination of wood planks or front doors nailed over windows - Irish carpentry perhaps? There’d have to be a reason for the madness, but I’d be damned if I could ever figure out an Irishman, especially since those few who remained behind seemed to share their homes with any and all the livestock they could cram inside their shacks, straw roofs and all.
A part of me wondered just how far we were expected to ride and what we’d do when we got to nowhere. Then we entered forest and were plunged into semi darkness.
Our pace seemed to slow as my men kept a constant look, left, right, forwards and repeat. Wanting to get out from the darkness as fast as possible, I kept my eyes forward the entire time, which in comparison to the others must have looked quite calm.
Then, up ahead, blocking the already inadequate Paddy mud road, there stood a solitary figure, hunched over with his back to us. An old man most likely, lost and senile, and too deaf to hear our horses’ hooves. He dressed in shabby rags, torn and grey, but there was nothing untoward there, given that in only my short time on the Emerald Isle, I’d already seen several such people, and some of them of the supposedly respectable kind.
Sheehan stiffened and the men to my rear murmured something in incomprehensible Mick.
But I wasn’t having this behaviour, no sir. The truth was I’d had just about enough of the shenanigans and wanted to arrive in Strabane or at least the next settlement with a whore house so I could show the boys what a breaking in was supposed to look like. This rapscallion was doubtless all part of the joke anyway.
“Stay here and leave this ruffian to me lads,” I called out in a carefree voice, “I’ll soon see him on his way.”
Sheehan interjected, “but sir, this would be your first, are you sure you wouldn’t rather…”
“…I said, I’ll see to him Lieutenant, and that’s an order.”
The men exerted a collective gasp as I yawned and began trotting toward the reprobate. “You there, move aside.”
The head twitched but there were no other responses.
“Did you not hear me? I said move aside or I’ll give you a damned good pummelling the likes of which you’ve never received.” From behind, one of the horses neighed and I could sense that my own steed was proceeding with extreme care and I needed to encourage him onwards lest he stop altogether. “Are you deaf? I said move.” I brandished my riding crop and thrashed it across the man’s shoulders.
He turned around.
They say that when you’re faced with death your life flashes before your eyes. Well I’m here to tell you it’s not true. Because what I saw in that moment, apart from the figure I’ll describe in a tick, was none other than Master Davis, one of my former fags and whole reason I was even here, as I was whipping him for not getting the temperature of my shaving water right. And if only I’d given the task to a fag more capable, or heaven forbid fetched the water myself, I wouldn’t right now be in this whole sorry mess.
The skin hung off his face like a bag on a rake, eyes set deep back in the skull as though they’d shrunk. His whole complexion was a sickly grey and a worm tried to wriggle free from a nostril. The freak’s jaw hung to one side and his gums had receded so much the teeth roots were visible. The smell reminded me of the Eton changing rooms after a rugby game. All this, despite being dressed in what at one time, would have been his best.
Having a coward’s instinct, usually I’d have been off long before any threat emerged, soaring away through the forest with my trusty horse, not to emerge until the danger had been vanquished. But on this occasion it was my steed, the big beautiful miracle and kindred spirit that she was, who started at full pelt before I could even issue the command, smashing straight through the demon whose body exploded on impact.
Unfortunately the horse was so panicked, it cantered to the left, into dense wood and headed straight for a pack containing more of the freaks who appeared from the trees far into the distance. To my disgust, they changed their original course and were even now staggering into our path.
The chance to cry out for help never came, it all happened so quick and a look over my shoulder revealed only that I’d lost my troopers. Paddy shouts of something carried over the distance but through the sounds of hooves I had no hope of interpreting the twang.
I had to duck below a traversing branch, having lost all control of my horse who galloped at full whack for what now appeare
d to be nine or ten of them, each as ghastly as the one I’d confronted and thrashed with my whip, for all the good that did.
They seemed completely uncoordinated, bumping into each other as they wandered into the path of my charging horse, that could only lead to obliteration upon contact. But then, either by accident or by instinct, they staggered into a block, forming a mass of wretched death I had no hope of being able to plough through. My horse knew it too, because she ground to a halt, mere paces from the demons, sending me headlong over the top, hurtling through the air to land on a pile of leaves.
The wind was knocked out of me but more than that, I’d twisted my ankle, meaning I couldn’t hope to initiate my automatic flight response. My mind was paralysed by fear and I felt my eyes bulging from their sockets as they dragged their rotted carcasses in my direction all the while my blasted horse chomped on something it’d found on the ground.
I backed against a tree as all ten shoved each other to get to me first. Oh God, but some of them truly were the picture of hideousness and they each had that empty glare in the eyes that screamed - Nobody home.
I was on the verge of contemplating my death, how I’d never found love, when I remembered my pistol, which I drew with haste. I pulled the trigger, it misfired and now I could only accept the death that was surely coming my way at the hands of these beasts.
All I had now was my sword but whilst falling, the scabbard had somehow lodged itself beneath me. I screamed for my mother as the first fell down upon me - With the top of its head missing.
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 4
