“Like I told you, with men like these, don’t be surprised if someone decides to wander into town for an ale, fresh whore or opiate, leaving the gates wide open for our besiegers as they do.” Major Muir ran a withered hand through his grey hair. “I’m only astonished it ain’t already happened.”
Later on, Dolan appeared and watched from afar a trio of likely lads who’d spent considerable time standing on chairs and taking bets over who could pick off the zombie from the greatest distance. Eventually, the colonel spotted something, rubbed his eyes and then strode forth, reprimanding only one of them, but not for alerting our presence to the thousands of dead within the vicinity, no, but instead for being clad in a pair of filthy boots. As it transpired, the man had been busied digging ditches before the prisoners were brought out for the task and with standards, as well as everything else, falling, had not thought prudent to clean them, like a proper soldier should.
Dolan, in a good strong English upper class accent that would hardly endear him to the men, demanded to know what of it and was not satisfied with the return - All this despite being covered from head to toe in pigeon shit, mind.
He had the man customarily flogged whilst the regiment was ordered to watch as though on parade and the poor beggar spent the next two nights convalescing.
If only that had been the sole instance of the colonel apparently turning in for Bedlam we might have made a better go of it. With the dead scratching at the door one would be most reasonable to expect he’d employ the mens’ time doing all they could to avert the likely attack, whenever it was to come, or else to ensure we were as well prepared for it as possible. But no, Dolan insisted on diverting valuable manpower to attend the barrack shrubbery which was laid out in pretty lines in a patch near the western wall. And when a goat ate the vast majority of it and trampled over the rest, the whole thing had to be restarted and later that day the animal found itself turning on a spit.
Suddenly, he was all about regulations and was most meticulous with them too, which was a first since I’d arrived and now the men were less preoccupied with death that waited just over the walls and instead had to concern themselves with shining their boots, cleaning sabres, grooming their mounts and ensuring there were no creases in their uniforms. Sure, it was all standard soldiery stuff but we’d supposedly gone rogue and therefore had a right to expect a lessening of discipline, drilling and the rest of the kind of rot that made soldiers’ lives miserable.
But what most men found hardest to accept, or even believe, was how Dolan insisted on an inspection parade no less than thrice a day, which was excessive even as punishment and we all had to bare the fellow as he strolled down the lines of pristine cavalrymen, often with uncountable numbers of pigeons attached to his person.
Muir guessed he was trying to keep the mens’ minds off the inevitable. Either that or he was turning mad, or had always been mad, or something had happened recently to make him that way. He made enquiries as to my experiences with him in Ireland, to which I brought the subject around to the draining of one particular barrel of pleasant tasting Scotch and the subject was promptly forgotten.
But Muir, and to a lesser extent myself, were far from the only men with concerns regarding the sanity of the chap in charge of our lives. I overheard the mutterings in the stables and at one of the roasting spits and saw how the men stifled their risky talk whenever I was in the vicinity. It would appear I wasn’t entirely to be trusted after all, probably because I spent much time loitering around the commanding officer, for I knew it to be the safest place in the barracks and he never seemed to tire of the compliments and praise I showered upon him.
But if everyone thought, or at least suspected the colonel was a few horses shy of a cavalry battalion, we all knew there was nothing to be done about it. Muir, officially the second in command was too old and withered and seemed not to have the respect of most of the men and besides, he wouldn’t want to be colonel anyway. The only other alternative was Skinner, who was as good as colonel anyway, but not the one of us had the desire to see it made unofficially official, for lack of a better expression. Besides, the murdering giant revelled in the status quo, because it gave him cover and would keep him out of the history books but mostly, he seemed to enjoy watching it all; the shambles, the indiscipline, anger, fear and wouldn’t have had it any other way. Indeed, if anyone dared mention plots of a coup to him, I saw and heard nothing of it.
And then a funny thing happened, something so absurd, so repulsive and so diabolical that upon it taking place, I had no option other than to spend the rest of the day, and most of that night, hiding in the latrines.
And like with most master plots for the future of mankind throughout the ages, it too was conceived within the latrine.
I was in the stall, halfway through cleaning myself with the old rag and water when I heard the two distinct streams striking the tin pan just beyond the door.
“I’ve had just about enough of all this drilling nonsense.”
“Aye, and I doon’t think yee’re the oonly one. If the colonel keeps thes up, there’ll soon be discontent amongst the men.”
“Discontent? Where’ve you been? I think we’ve already reached that stage.”
The other man grunted his agreement and cleared his throat. “Best noot descuss thes. We doon’t want to be hung for treason.”
“For treason? I think it’s a little too late for that, don’t you?”
“Yee knoo what aye mean.”
They laughed and there was the pattering of feet as one of the men, whoever he was, stepped toward the door to ensure nobody was in hearing range.
“The man’s Paddy, did yee knoo?”
“Really? Gerron with you. Sounds more English to me.”
“Speakin’ ‘o Englesh, ayl tell yee who’d meek a greet colonel.”
“Colonel…who?”
“Who’d yee thenk? Hoow many Englesh are weth us en the gerrison?”
There was a loud inhalation of air. “Ah, of course. Captain Strapper!”
“’N’ ne’er was there a fayner soldier in Scotland an’ yee can merk may words, aye enclude Willy Wallace en that score too.”
“Gerron, you really think Strappy’s a better soldier than Willy Wallace?”
Silence ensued, like they were both giving it some thought.
“Et’s just a blessin’ Strappy wasn’t aroond at Bannockburn, otherwise it’d be a whool defferent stoory.”
“Wait!” The man, who, because of his refined accent, I took to be an officer, stepped again toward the door before returning. “You don’t think…nah, doesn’t matter.”
“What? What were yee goin’ tee say?” This chap, although less refined would also likely be an officer since the other was unlikely to discuss such business with a common soldier.
“Oh, I don’t know…I just…suppose…if a coup…and I’m being completely hypothetical here, but suppose if a coup…or if Dolan were to take a tumble in the stables…you don’t think Strappy would be happy to be colonel, would you? I mean…I’m being completely theoretical here, you understand?”
He laughed. “Yee’re mad, Captain. Ef Strappy wanted ter be colonel, he’d ‘ave done it be noow already.”
His treasonous, dangerous friend joined in with the laughter. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But still…the job he did with the defences…a born soldier that one…a born leader.” He sighed. “What a lost opportunity…a chance for salvation and for making it through this siege alive.”
“Aye, tis a greet pity. Why doon’t we lament oor loss over a wee dram, aye?”
It was a good thing I’d already emptied my bowels and, as I squatted deeper into the stall’s recesses, placed all my being in stopping myself from screaming, yelping or else fainting.
The thing is, it was a proposal that would solve not everything, but certainly a great deal of my problems, even if it would create a whole lot more. And it was what, at one point, I’d wanted, indeed half expected would happen ever since
arriving, that eventually Dolan would be overthrown. But I wouldn’t take it like this. Not with my name banded about as though it was all powerful. And it was truly saying something about the depth of my moral fibre, or lack thereof, that when a genuine lifeline presented itself, I chose instead to hide in the latrine like, well, a coward. And as I sat in the dirt and grime and piss and shit, I wondered how my life had ever come to this.
It was late into the night when I finally crept out and the men were too busy drinking and singing and whoring to care about coups and naturally I endeavoured to stay well away from any officer who wasn’t Major Muir.
The next day, Dolan continued oblivious to the problems and occupied most of his time sitting at his small table near the flag mast, which had become his new base of operations. An umbrella was set permanently above his twitching head, whether it rained or not, that ridiculous sword strapped to his belt, whilst he played chess against himself.
He divulged to me the chess set was pinched from a former Highlander who’d looted it during the Indian mutiny and a finer set of ivory pieces you never saw. Typically, a large number of his birds would spend nearly half the day with him, either attached directly or else left to strut around the table or at his feet from where always the seeds were plentiful.
To watch him, the love for those filthy rodents and the happiness with which he regarded them was to assume he was unaware the dead were even now beginning to fill up the ditches through sheer weight of numbers as that rotten flock returned from the Old Town, having most likely exhausted all other vittles.
Muir made the difficult decision that flame should now be taken to the outer southern ditch. “Oh, it’ll alert the rest of ‘em, Captain, but just take a look. If they keep filling them at this rate, they’ll soon be stepping across heads and be at the walls.”
And then I watched as several sheep were sheared, the wool soaked in oil and placed in sacks before being flung into the pits by the dozen. It was then down to one of our caber tossing competitors, a stout man who went by the name of Argyle, and who also claimed to be cow pat throwing champion in his home village of Lennoxtown, to hurl the torch.
Then the outer trench was aflame and the sky was made dark by the filthy cloud as we all watched in silence. The dead continued, pressing on just like they had on Braid Hills, just like consumers coming for sugar, tea or a new pair of boots with an extra thick sole and steel toe caps. And they ever continued shambling in from the Old Town, from the woods, from the hills and from all other directions, falling into the flames, some to emerge afire yet still forging on, only to disappear into the next ditch.
Eventually the first ditch extinguished and would no longer set ablaze and we prayed for rain, perhaps in the hope it would wash away the ash. Some idiot even suggested dredging it, but that damned fool suggestion was thankfully dropped when not one person came forth to volunteer.
Eventually the dead simply walked right across, so thick that first ditch was with ashes, only to commence filling the second in larger quantities.
It didn’t all happen in one sudden rush, but rather gradually, which gave everyone more time to consider their options, or lack thereof. And by now the second ditch in front of the gates was filling at a steady rate whilst around the rest of the perimeter, dead heads appeared only sporadically from the void. It was like they saw the opening from the south, the men and women beyond it and so that’s where they concentrated. It was all most alarming to discover the small possibility that perhaps the dead still possessed the minutest of cognitive capabilities, even if it was merely following what all the others were doing. It’d only require the one to get it right and the rest wouldn’t be far behind.
And with everybody so preoccupied with ensuring their buttons shone and the colonel could see his freckled face in the boots of any trooper he chose to accost, the most important thing was given second preference - That of ensuring no zombies entered Redford Barracks.
I’d tried my bloody hardest, I truly had, but with so many of them spread out around such a wide perimeter and there being so few of us stretched so thin with most watching the south side, it was hardly surprising when a brace of the blighters were able to get in.
It was a corporal who spotted them, trampling over Dolan’s shrubs and after raising the alarm, had them put down with a couple of quick sabre slashes across the neck, slicing off their heads.
Gad only knew how they did it and I spent an hour meticulously searching for holes, gaps, tunnels, potential sabotage and even for a pile of corpses providing a step up. There was nothing, nothing at all, and I didn’t like having to admit defeat with something like this, not just because it presented danger but because I was just so bloody curious, but in the end I had to let it drop. It was just one of those things.
And with it being my job to prevent this sort of occurrence, I spent the remainder of that day keeping a distance from both Dolan and Skinner and it was now getting to the stage I was trying to avoid nearly every officer in the barracks, and most of the troopers too.
But with the men either being utilised with the barrack aesthetics or else loafing in large groups smoking and eating at the south wall, when they weren’t whoring that is, it just served to show the complete lack of leadership and direction, whilst Dolan sank ever further into madness and Skinner, when he wasn’t sleeping or whoring or eating or threatening, appeared hardly concerned with our longevity either. The thought of a zombie being capable of putting him down was hard to comprehend and I think he knew it too, which explained the lack of concern for his own safety and therefore why should he care? He seemed to care for very little, unless of course someone should find themselves in possession of something that belonged to him.
It happened during a game of poker, where the men were placing in trinkets they’d pilfered from places they doubtless couldn’t recall. A trooper named Hammond was down to his boot laces when suddenly, most likely in a drink infused state, he raised the stakes and produced a gold timepiece on a chain. That was the moment McGregor revealed he’d spent the last twenty minutes watching the game, apparently out of curiosity, by jumping in and screaming that the piece belonged to Captain Skinner. Accusations were dealt, then excuses, finally pleadings before McGregor disappeared into the gloom, the men being too drunk to run after him, before he returned a few minutes later, Skinner in tow.
McGregor pointed Hammond out, at which point the man, who was no midget himself, was lifted from the ground by a single hand and slung backwards over Skinner’s shoulder. Vomit fired from Hammond’s mouth but in his inebriated state exhibited no other resistance save for the occasional moan as Skinner’s shoulder dug further into his belly with every stride toward the south wall. Indeed, the man much resembled a lump, or rather a log, a caber if you will, and Skinner grasped the man by the feet, positioned him at the ready, and then proceeded to toss him over the wall. We heard the thump several seconds later.
I wish I could say the man Hammond had won his hand, as it would add to the anecdote but McGregor had simply kicked the cards into the dirt out of spite, and put a price on his own daft head in the process. But if there was one moral to the story, it was to never steal from Captain Skinner.
It was becoming increasingly clear to me, however, that the whole barracks was beginning to resemble an every-man-for-himself free-for-all, the dying days of Rome being repeated, only this time with what remained of the Scotch race and even forgetting the situation outside the walls, things on the inside were starting to fall apart at a frightening rate.
It was saying something that Major Muir was the only man, apart from Jimmy who didn’t know better, who was able to keep a calm head. This being so, I decided it was time I worked on a contingency plan, just in case.
I pondered the idea of changing sides and huddling with the men in the cells below, which truly showed the funk I was in to even consider it. But there was now little possibility of them accepting me, not after I’d spent many hours forcing them to dig ditches and thrashing
them for the most minor of misdemeanours. As always, these things are a matter of weighing up the better of two appalling options and going with the one least likely to get you harmed.
Which was when I remembered we were, supposedly, a cavalry regiment and so I endeavoured to spend several hours in the stables, carefully examining each horse for attributes that would be most useful for my purposes. I found a plucky young thing with long muscular legs, a shiny mane and good teeth, all signs of health and vitality. I switched stalls so she was positioned closest to the door and ensured she was furnished with the best feed and water, also placing the saddle in a convenient location should the need to flee arrive. I just hoped neither horse nor saddle belonged to Skinner.
Satisfied I’d done all I could, for the time being at least, all I could do now was wait for whatever was to come to do so, whilst trying not to fire any more cannons.
Trapped
It was after the second ditch became so full of dead that they could easily walk or crawl over the heads of their fellows to reach the third that the panic ascended to new levels. At places the first gutter resembled nothing but a mass of charred ashes and bones and the dead, with only some minor difficulty, were traversing it, most sinking to their knackers before ploughing on through.
The fire had incinerated all those stuck within but had not prevented the rest from ultimately advancing further, indeed it had arguably provided assistance and now, with the second ditch facing the same question, there was debate on whether to put it to the fire too.
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 40
