“They’re taunting us from above.” It was Dolan who approached, holding a small piece of paper that rolled up every time he straightened it. “The dead are leaving the Old Town en masse, migrating our way and we’re next for a concentrated, merciless, attack which won’t stop until we’re all dead and don’t we now regret not sallying out to save our kin?”
Muir turned away from Dolan and his message and I asked the colonel in all sincerity. “They have men, yes? Perhaps you could ask them to sally out themselves and save us?”
Muir scoffed and walked away but it had been worth a try.
“Don’t give up hope yet, Strappy. You remember Ireland? You’ve been through worse than this.” His Paddy accent emerged in fragments, mixed with some strain and a slightly higher pitch. Even the insane knew deep down what was coming, even if perhaps he didn’t feel it like most others. He again uncoiled the message and then confirmed his sanity, or lack of. “They’re sure to continue sending these, even as we’re overwhelmed and I intend on keeping a record of them…for the sake of posterity. I have a nice little leather bound binder…a black one looted from Coldstream…with spring loaded arches and metal finger pull…quite the work of art it is and I’m sure all correspondence will be kept nice and neat for future generations.”
The worrying thing was, Dolan could very well see the dead massed beyond the ditches and how even now they snarled and agitated like they were in some appalling prerequisite state before the final attack commenced. Twice throughout that little speech he’d even looked directly at them, but was more concerned with finding a storage method that would prevent his stupid messages from coiling up. In a way I envied him, to know you were hours from death and still not give a damn, to be preoccupied with the mundane and pointless. But it was attitudes like that that would be his downfall and why those who experience extreme panic, people like me, people who fear death and pain, would never give up trying to avoid the same. The tragedy was, of course, that my life was in his hands, even if I’d done all I possibly could to take as much responsibility back for myself. Men must ultimately control their own destinies and not leave it in the hands of others - Least of all madmen.
“They’re coming!” Someone screamed, not that I needed telling as thousands of feet made that first step in unison. It was the amplified sound of the breeze rustling leaves up high, but far more chilling.
And there was no way of knowing how they did it, coordinating a mass simultaneous movement like it was all instinct, after knowing to hold back long enough for their extraordinary numbers to tell.
But this was it.
They were coming now.
And then that breeze hit me and the rot that came with it.
I vomited over my boots and when I straightened Dolan was still there.
“Well, better finish my chess game before it’s too late.”
Nowhere To Run
Dolan wasn’t the only one keeping a cool head as the thousands pressed on towards us.
Jimmy didn’t know any better either and continued petting one of the horses that’d been brought out for exercise, bright smile fixed upon his simple face.
Then more and more of the men were shouting obscenities for every damned fool to grab his carbine and blade because damnation was upon us, kicking those still laid out on the ground into movement and cursing their very mothers for the whores that they were.
Suddenly the barracks was the picture of activity, even if not all productive. While Muir tried to assemble the men on the walls where chairs, stools, tables and bales of straw had been positioned, Skinner was busy demanding men take the unconsumed whisky back down to the stores where it would be safe. Where captains and lieutenants were barking out orders, Dolan shuffled chess pieces around his board. When sergeants were ensuring each trooper possessed adequate carbine cartridges and had blades strapped to their belts, I was stomping up and down the line, shouting words of encouragement, trying to look engaged and useful whilst keeping a safe distance from the wall, even as my intestines threatened to liquify and keeping one eye, at all times, on my escape route to the stables.
The prisoners were shuffling about on their arses as their gazes bounced from place to place, soldier to officer, muttering to each other words of comfort and best wishes for whatever lay beyond. Norris caught my eye with a pleading look but all I could do was turn away and continue shouting redundant praise on deaf senses.
The first carbine volley, forty or so guns, ripped me from all other thoughts as the smoke billowed from the wall. The men passed the used guns behind to where another trooper waited with a fresh charge to hand over and so it continued; load and fire, load and fire. After two volleys they no longer fired in unison but cracked off intermittently.
“That second detch mayt as well be a rood.”
“They’re felling up the therd noow!”
“Noo, eem foor the hayd, eem foor the hayd.”
On my sixth or seventh lap, I made the mistake of walking too close to Norris.
“Captain Strapper…Captain Strapper, please, for the love God and Britannia, would you please see your way to freeing us…take off these chains?” He gestured to the men clustered around him, a little over a hundred which could seriously boost our numbers, or be our deaths. “How could we bare you malice at a time like this, Captain?”
I glared at the blades they’d each been issued and stepped away. “You’ll fight for us, alright, and for yourselves and you’ll do it how and when you’re told but we’re not stupid enough to give you free reign of the place, damn your eyes, Norris.”
No - They could fight disadvantaged or not at all, their arms restricted by heavy iron chains and if that weren’t good enough, well then, they could take it up with Skinner for all I cared. Regardless, it wasn’t my decision and neither was I stupid enough to raise the issue with the men whose decision it was. Then I saw the boxes of cartridges stacked up in a nice clearing far enough from both the wall and prisoners, and so, seeing a relatively safe job, I took it upon myself to mind them. Aye, twas an essential task - The men firing down at the dead would eventually run out of ammunition and someone needed to be on hand to ensure an efficient distribution beyond the standard sixty.
As it was, the whole event wasn’t the typical assault on a stronghold one would come to expect, as the student of history I quite fancied myself. They were dead, after all, and lacked siege weapons and tactics, relying only on sheer numbers to eventually swamp us. And because of this, the garrison’s collective funk proved somewhat inflated and premature.
With shots firing constantly, it was almost an hour before the third ditch filled to the extent the dead could step over and then the whole thing was put to the flame. But the volume of dead meant they simply continued pushing on, over the heads of their ignited friends, which proved little or no deterrent and then their haggard faces were at the wall, finally.
There was a strange lull in firing, enough to tempt me from my sanctuary, fooled as I was as the men collectively had the desire to discover if the dead would continue, which would only mean one thing. I leapt upon a stool just as the first zombie, a kilted thug with hair like fire, arrived and impaled itself on a spike, straight through the eyeball. To my disgust, it didn’t stop until after the red coated skewer emerged through the other side of its skull and then it sagged and remained.
I wasn’t the only one vomiting over the wall’s edge, as now, two more were poking themselves, then three, four, five and then all along the perimeter zombies were catching on spikes. Most did so and hung limp, but not all. There were those who caught themselves at awkward angles, jabbing their heads but missing the brain. Some wrenched themselves free, to try again, others hadn’t the strength to pull away. Then there were the extra tall ghouls who managed to aim the point into their necks, or collar bones and I saw one giant catch a spike between two ribs and he wrestled violently, snapping the iron clean off the wall before being cleaved by a sabre.
After the initial shock, the fi
ring recommenced and I scurried back to my self appointed station. An hour of constant firing, of bitter defending pursued, where I eagerly distributed fresh cartridges to my saviours and then the shots ceased as the men reverted to the use of the sabre, their fellows from behind jumping up to add to the wall of steel.
But the perimeter was ridiculously large and we so few and not only were the dead spreading out in attempts at finding a way in, I also saw the first trooper wrenched over the side by a demon with a blade through its neck. The man tumbled out of view and I heard the screams all the way back where I stood, immersed in my essential task.
And then something happened that not one person, not even myself with all my fright and experience of such horrors had envisaged as a possibility. And what happened highlighted in stark detail the kind of enemy we faced, the lengths to which they’d go to reach us and how little they cared for their own personal well being.
At the gates, where the bars stood imposing and had for years succeeded in preventing even the children of gypsies, with their small heads, from entering and stealing what little scrap metal they could find, a lone zombie now peered through them. And I stood back, paralysed, as the corpse grabbed ahold of two bars, inserted its nob between and pushed. Dark fluid flowed down its face as it continued, contorting, squishing its head between those immovable rods to emerge through the other side, new head shape and all. After that, getting the diseased, rotten torso through was easy; why worry about breaking your ribs, after all, when your skull was already fragmented. It made perfect sense.
It was inside!
A teenager with a horrific bite mark on its neck and donned in fisherman’s overalls sighted the prisoners and staggered the wrong way, unable to comprehend how, after making it this far, every new step took him further from his prey.
It was so unexpected that for too long nobody, that is apart from me, saw it. And then there were shouts as a trooper ran forth to stove its head in.
But that one zombie, in his sacrifice, had inspired others and now the gates were inundated with dead of all shapes attempting the same, most finding themselves too large yet not giving up. One particular rotund specimen, none other than the former local town cryer, wedged himself proper, having deformed his head only to find the body could not follow. But either side, surely his slimmer fellows would have better luck.
Another pigeon dive bombed overhead and minutes later an excited Dolan found me squatting between several large wooden crates.
“Strappy, they say they’ll take all our Scotch and stores once we’re all dead and ain’t it a shame the general ain’t here to watch us die like the dogs we are.” The colonel interrupted his chess game to tell me that?
And then I watched incredulous as he scarpered, that ridiculous sword scraping along the ground as he did.
Until now, I hadn’t noticed the constant pounding being sustained by the latrine door and the dust that fanned out from the brickwork with every knock, the nails for now holding. It was the real weak spot in the perimeter and now the dead were working over it close to where two whores strained to throw cobbles and other fallen masonry over the other side.
Some of the prisoners were standing and had gathered close to Muir. The major held a key out poised before retracting his hand and then repeating the movement several times like he couldn’t quite decide whether to release them. He wanted them free, no doubt about that, but changed his mind because Skinner had been watching from near the wall. He now strode toward the excitement.
“What’re yee doin’?” The giant demanded, his sword drawn and bloody.
“Might as well make them fight blindfolded. What good are they without full manoeuvrability?” Muir spoke calmly, despite the ensuing madness and Skinner’s proximity.
“They stays as they is, Meejor.”
It was saying something about the imminence of being overrun and how deep down we all knew it that emboldened Muir, who should’ve known better. He pointed to one particularly sickly looking prisoner with pallid skin and exceptionally pronounced cheekbones. “That one can barely lift his arms, never mind a bloody sword. Why ever would they attack us now, when we’re all about to be consumed?”
Skinner stepped toward a ring of five sat on the ground and yanked up the lot with a single effort. “See, they can stand an’ if they can stand they can fayt and they’ll remain tethered throughoot.” He pushed the lot of them toward the gates, giving the lagger a boot up the backside.
Muir hesitated before calling to Skinner’s back. “Captain, you’re putting them on the front line despite being hardly able to wield their blades.” It was true that some of the chains were cut so short there was barely room to slash and thrust. It was all yet one more haired brained idea, ill thought out and now being implemented. “If they’re to fight and die before we commit ourselves then give them a chance, at least give them firearms.”
Skinner turned on the man, all calm, his voice still carrying over the noise. “Soo noow yee want to set them loose and give them guns, es that rayt, Meejor?”
I hated to admit it, but I actually agreed with Skinner up to a point. I wanted every available man put to keeping me safe, but I didn’t trust the prisoners, certainly not with firearms and certainly not unchained and certainly not both together. No, they needed placing in the most dangerous spots; the front gates, the walls, by the latrine door that could fall in at any moment and they needed placing there in a manner that would not threaten my safety. The prisoners were my buffer and designated to take down as many dead as possible, but whilst chained up, using only their blades and to the devil with what anyone else thought.
And whilst they continued bickering, men at the wall were being mauled as the corpses below piled so high the dead were able to walk up them. Whereas before, from my position, I could not see even their heads, now full red beards were on display, peeping up from beyond the parapet to claw at the defenders who, to their credit, continued to fight.
“There’s noo end to ‘em.”
“That’s me mother in law, let me stick her between the ayes.”
A colossal explosion shook the ground and I dived behind a crate. When I emerged for a squint, a sergeant was holding his head in his hands, the smoking cannon beside him. In his panic, as the dead continued squeezing through the gates, he’d unleashed a round of canister, double shotted à la Strappy, sliced down the five prisoners Skinner had moved, three of our own men and maybe one or two of the dead with it. They were subsequently and unceremoniously shoved through the bars by those behind and that was when I saw several of the rods had bent, narrowing the gap at some spans but widening it at others. The sergeant fell to his knees and wept as the prisoners, apoplectic, screamed abuse at the man.
It was all falling apart now, if ever it was in tact and two lieutenants ran up to Dolan, thrashed their arms about and demanded orders and leadership. In response, the colonel moved the knight to Queen’s Rook four and then the latrine door collapsed inwards and the dead were spilling through the chasm.
They fell on their faces mostly and remained sprawled across the floor until managing to realise where they were and a concentration of troopers left the wall to plug the gap with carbines and blades which only left somewhere else more exposed and all the while Muir and Skinner continued arguing.
The two lieutenants gave up on Dolan, bypassed Muir entirely and threw themselves upon Skinner, begging to be allowed to fall back toward the safety of the primary barrack building because the walls were lost and if we weren’t quick we’d all be dead’uns, sir.
Skinner responded by shooting one and plunging his blade through the other. “We fayt an’ stand oor groond here, yee coowards.”
“Damn you, Captain, have you lost your mind?” Muir chastised him in front of everyone. “You’ve finally taken to murdering officers now, I see.” The major wiped blood from his face that had spattered over it and I feared he’d said his final words but then McGregor slinked out from somewhere, unbloodied sword in hand and d
emanded that Muir bugger off and help defend the garrison.
He did, and took the prisoners with him, chains and all to where the dead were now toppling inside in increasing numbers. And it wasn’t just through the hole where the watchtower used to stand or through the bars where they now came, but from over the walls as well.
At some points the men had abandoned the walls altogether, where the corpses were piled so high a gentle slope of dead had been created and they simply strolled up and over before landing with a crack on the cobbles within.
I thought about jumping inside one of the crates and closing the lid but they contained so much gunpowder it’d be safer operating one of the cannons.
And at that another cannon belched out its payload, severing several of the bars entirely and taking perhaps two or three dead with it.
After that, the stream of ghouls continued, ever faster, pouring inside, until they reached the barbed wire. It’d been rolled out over a long distance at the south side and most of the men weren’t yet behind its perceived protection and still fought at the walls or various other places in front. Three zombies blundered right into it, one tumbling over and coming to land on its teeth, the others unable to figure out how they weren’t closing in on their prey, despite their little legs pumping away as they pushed the contrivance slowly across the ground. Eventually they gave up, after seeing the bulk of our force already on their side, and stumbled away with kilts caught on the barbs. Together, they uprooted the entire fence, dragging it along with them with a scraping sound before finally their kilts were wrenched away to reveal the ‘true Scots’ zombie genitalia beneath.
The prisoners, with their limited capabilities, seemed to be engaged in the hardest fighting. Well let them, thinks I, because that’s what they were for. By now, some were wounded, others dead and weighing down their group as they slumped against the pull of a neighbour’s irons, the one thing they all shared was the valour with which they fought.
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 42
