by Ricky Fleet
“Dead,” Harkiss spat.
“Impossible!” replied Eldridge, “Don’t you wonder what happened to Graff and Poncho? They are still in communication with people, that is why we haven’t seen them for weeks. Baxter doesn’t want them spilling the beans.”
The group sat in silence, eating their dinner while they contemplated the next move. If others were out there, why hadn’t anyone come to take over from Baxter, someone more senior? There were so many unanswered questions on people’s lips; the secrecy after the outbreak had been understood, but the world was gone now. What could Baxter possibly hope to gain by brutalizing a small and dwindling regiment? They weren’t allowed to fight back against the hordes that waited at the gate. Survivors were turned away under penalty of death, and now they were being blown up. Insanity.
“I think I saw DB and Jonesy,” Morrow whispered so quietly that Eldridge had to ask him to repeat it, “Don’t tell anyone yet.”
“That’s fantastic!” she whispered back, barely able to conceal her excitement, “I understand. My lips are sealed.”
“If I had told Baxter, those families would still be alive,” said Morrow, putting his face in his hands.
“You couldn’t know what he would commit cold blooded murder,” Eldridge emphasized.
“I should have just kept on flying past without noting their position, their blood is on my hands.”
“Knock that shit off. You have one mission now, track them and find where they are going. Feed Baxter as much shit as you need to keep him from finding out,” Eldridge said gravely.
“I don’t think I have it in me to keep quiet. He scares the hell out of me, it’s like he knows things!” Morrow despaired.
“He’s not omnipotent, just hold your nerve!” she replied sternly.
“I’ll try,” offered Morrow.
“I know you will,” she finished, but wasn’t convinced.
Filton watched her from his table, trying to be casual. She knew there was a target on herself from the show of defiance at the gate. Let them watch, she thought, it may take the pressure from the UAS pilot who was close to breaking point.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Should he still be asleep?” Jonesy asked the doctor.
“After the knock he took, I’m amazed he survived,” she replied honestly, “I can only put it down to a thick skull.”
Jonesy laughed into his hand to muffle the noise, “I can’t wait to tell him that.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Christina said, frowning and smiling at the same time, “I merely pointed out he has good genetics.”
“Oh really?” Jonesy raised a knowing eyebrow.
“Behave yourself,” warned Christina, but he caught the blossoming cheeks before she turned away.
“Sorry, Doc, I’ll leave you to finish up with him,” he said the final words with a lewd inflection and barely made it out of the door in time to avoid the thrown pillow.
Peter was preparing breakfast; the final slices of bread held over the cooker burners in an attempt to toast it. It worked to a fashion, with some corners singed and others left barely touched by the flame. He shrugged at Jonesy who looked at the plate of char patched bread with a look of amusement.
“It was worth a try,” Peter offered by way of explanation.
“Absolutely. The smell hit me in the bedroom,” Jonesy said and took the plate.
Peter looked crestfallen and could only mutter a quiet, “Sorry, I tried not to burn it.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, mate,” Jonesy clapped him on the shoulder, “I meant it smelled delicious. Although, I am surprised the fire alarms haven’t started blaring.”
Peter laughed and looked around the cabin at the swirling tendrils of smoke from his haphazard browning. Jonesy bit into the crisp delicacy and the melted butter ran over his tongue. The salted spread was enough to make him close his eyes in appreciation, and he sighed with contentment.
“I heard conversation about going out. Why are we risking our lives when we barely survived yesterday?” Jonesy asked between mouthfuls.
“There’s a farmers store in the town,” explained Gloria, “We need to search it for supplies before we try and reach the castle.”
“Why would we need rotten fruit and vegetables?” he asked, “Surely a supermarket would be a better choice for a raid?”
“It isn’t the existing produce we are after. There are a few acres of untouched soil within the castle walls,” Gloria explained.
Jonesy shook his head at his foolishness, “We are going for the seeds.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed John. “We will need to forage for existing supplies to get through the winter, but as soon as spring breaks we plant crops. A mix of vegetables and fruit will be needed or we run the risk of nutritional deficiencies which will leave us too weak to fight.”
“I’m in,” Jonesy declared and went to the pile of weapons and ammunition, “Who else is going?”
“Me,” Braiden said and held up a piece of paper, “I have the list.”
“Me too,” replied Sam.
“And me,” said Peter.
By the end, it seemed everybody would be going and Jonesy had to gently reject their enthusiastic offers.
“No, I want it low key. Braiden, Jodi, and I will go,” he told the group.
“I don’t like the idea of you being out there in such small numbers,” Sarah said and hugged Braiden, worry etched on her features.
“Trust me, we can move from cover to cover a lot easier if there are just three of us,” Jonesy explained. He understood her concern, but stealth would be paramount in avoiding any lingering dead.
“I’m coming too,” proclaimed Kurt, “Unless we plan to dig the soil by hand we will need some tools. You can cover me while I bring back as many as I can carry.”
Jonesy nodded in agreement. The castle would possibly have a gardening division to maintain the beautiful grounds, but a set of shears and a shovel wouldn’t last long when they had to plant hundreds of seeds.
“Let’s take a look. We still have the issue of getting to shore safely after destroying the ramp,” said John opening the door leading to the covered entertaining deck.
The snow had settled into the corners from the driving wind, but the main deck was mostly clear of the powdery ice. Christina followed and fired the generator to provide some electricity for the small heaters in the narrowboat.
“We are good for a few days at least,” she told John, pointing at a fuel gauge that registered at over ninety percent full. With a nod, she closed the hatch and left them to take in the view.
The panorama was breathtaking. Like a scene from a Christmas card, the fields and trees were a crisp, almost luminous white. All that was missing was the glow of welcoming lights from the windows of the homes and lazy, drifting smoke from the chimney stacks, promising a cozy hearth. Further upriver, the bridge and burned out train were the only objects to be lacking a white blanket. The stark contrast between the beauty of the vista and the awful, twisted, burned shell of the carriage ended any sense of wonder.
“Shit. I hoped they would have wandered off in the night towards the train,” whispered Jonesy, crouching and looking over the edge of the deck.
The quintessential children frolicking in the snow, making snowmen and playfully throwing snowballs had been replaced by the gathered corpses of the previous day’s pursuit.
“I doubt they could even see the fire with the storm raging all around,” deduced Kurt.
“How many do you think there are? Fifty, sixty?” asked Jodi.
“At least,” John agreed.
“How do we get past them?” she questioned.
“I could pick them off one at a time, no problem,” explained Jonesy, “It would only take me ten minutes.”
“I don’t think we will have much choice,” said Kurt with frustration. They had thousands of rounds of ammunition left, but each shell was valuable and to use them on enemies that couldn’t reach them seemed a waste.
&nb
sp; “Wait a minute,” whispered Jodi, trying to see if her eyes were deceiving her.
“What is it?” asked John after a few seconds, unable to understand what she was staring at with such intensity.
“They aren’t moving like before…” she said, more to herself than the others, “They can see us, but they are sluggish.”
“I’m obviously not seeing what you are seeing.” Jonesy pointed to movement within the crowd.
“No, look closely,” Jodi continued, “It’s the older ones that can move.”
They studied the group for a while and she was right. The ‘wetter’ dead; the ones who had been killed and partly eaten after the outbreak showed little movement, despite the proximity of food. The older, drier ones; those who had decomposed and dug themselves from the grave were the only ones with full mobility. They moved within the larger mass unhindered, trying to get to the survivors but unwilling to wade through the river.
“They must be frozen, that’s why they can’t move,” Braiden understood.
“Exactly,” beamed Jodi.
“We can avoid most of them completely. And there I was last night, complaining about the cold,” Kurt joked. The recovery would be a great deal safer than they could have hoped for, but they were constrained by time. The sky was clear and the sun was blinding against the white backdrop. The snow was giving off a mist as the rays gradually brought the temperature up.
Seeing this, Jonesy stood up, “We need to hustle. We won’t get a better opportunity.”
“Why don’t we take advantage and just kill every last one of the bastards,” Braiden growled, “They are sitting ducks.”
“It would give us a much safer route back to the boat,” mused Jonesy, “Let’s do it. Kurt, get out on the dock and pull one of those boats down here.” He pointed to a rowing boat tied further down.
“What are you going to do?” Kurt replied.
“I’m getting my rifle; I will take out the dry fuckers.”
Kurt shook his head at the absurdity of the label; they were now differentiating the zombies by how moist they were. “Ok, be right back.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The wooden floor was icy, but a layer of anti-slip material had been fitted in the past. It was in a poor state of repair, much like the rest of the dock. Stepping carefully, Kurt pushed the snow clear with his foot and made it to a sturdy looking dinghy.
“Follow in my tracks,” Kurt said to Braiden.
The faint coughs of the suppressed rifle spat, breaking the morning silence and the mummified cadavers were destroyed, falling around their immobile companions. They untied the craft and guided it around the empty moorings, before securing it to the side of their floating abode. Heading back inside, they found Jonesy suiting up into his tactical vest and loading up fresh magazines. Jodi, Kurt, and Braiden gathered their weapons and the expedition was ready.
“Do we have any scarves?” asked Braiden, rubbing at his aching ears.
“That’s a good idea. The cold will affect us as much as it affects them,” Kurt agreed, blowing warm breath into his cupped hands, trying to ease the numbness in his fingers from reclaiming the boat.
“Gloves would help too, but I don’t want the bat flying out of my hands,” Jodi explained.
Gloria dug through their belongings and found three woolen scarves. Jonesy waved her away, he would make do without one. He had never liked the feeling of the wrapping, especially around his face. When carrying out special operations, they were forced to wear dark fabric face coverings under the helmet to mask their identities. It felt like being slowly suffocated.
“Please be safe,” Sarah said, hugging them all close and giving Kurt and Braiden a kiss.
“It’ll be a walk in the park,” replied Jonesy with an almost imperceptible nod to her. He would keep them safe, no matter what.
They stepped carefully into the bobbing boat, and were waved off by those remaining. Sarah mouthed ‘I love you’ and Kurt blew a kiss to her. Braiden rowed slowly, watching the horde for any sign they had regained enough flexibility to pose a direct threat. Some heads turned in slow motion with a great effort, splitting frozen flesh in their desire to see the warm meat.
“I think we are good. Another hour or two and we would be in trouble,” Jonesy judged and they all climbed out onto the frozen riverbank. The snow was ten inches deep, crunching with each stride as it compacted under their weight.
“We take it slow, choppers only. Strike quickly and then back away, I will watch for any activity from behind,” Jonesy said and shouldered his rifle.
The crowd were like statues in a horror film. Milky eyes turned, watching the survivors as they moved behind the frozen zombies. Limbs cracked as the monsters started to strain in their frozen state, desperate to feed. It was soon apparent the two-hour window was too generous and didn’t account for the tenacity of their foe.
“Jonesy, we don’t have that much time. Keep an eye on us as well, the natives are getting restless,” Kurt told the soldier.
“I’ve got your back,” Jonesy confirmed, “Go to work.”
One by one, the zombie’s skulls were split open, spilling an icy, green slush. Darting in and slashing down, the three then leapt back to ensure they wouldn’t be surprised by a freshly moving arm. The massacre lasted only minutes and the release of fearful, pent up breaths could be heard from the watchers on the narrow boat. With a final wave, the four-person team moved off into the frigid day, leaving a pile of frozen undead corpses at the riverside.
“Stay to the fence line and if I drop to the ground, you do the same,” Jonesy ordered and moved off up the track that led to the decrepit boat enthusiast building.
Time had not been kind to the ailing business and a new coat of paint was long overdue on the flaking structure. A few zombies stood in the abandoned car park, but were rooted to the spot and facing away from the survivors. The track joined the main Ford road that led south to Bognor Regis and north, over the railway to Arundel. Before the dead took over the world, salt spreaders would have covered the roads to keep traffic flowing. Now, the snow topped cars were still, the black tarmac layered with white.
“The farm store should be to our left if Christina remembers correctly, set back between those businesses,” Kurt whispered, pointing to a small promenade of shops.
A café, hair salon, and an iron mongers had been broken into, the glass shattered inwards. He could imagine the terror as the zombies hammered on the display window, the first cracks appearing as it weakened. The screams as the dead breached the shops, feeding on those within.
“I don’t get it,” said Braiden.
The others looked at him quizzically and Jodi spoke up, “What do you mean?”
“Ford isn’t a big place, but we haven’t seen anywhere near enough zombies,” he explained his concerns.
“Don’t forget the train station,” Kurt said. But thinking back, there were only hundreds, not the thousands there could have been and his brow furrowed in confusion.
“I say we just thank our lucky stars they have walked off somewhere. Let’s go,” Jonesy finished the conversation and ran low between the cars, kicking up drifts of snow.
A sign mounted on the brick wall above an untouched antique shop proclaimed ‘Weston’s Farm Store, fresh produce daily’ with an arrow guiding the public between the buildings. Ducking outside the shop while Jonesy surveyed the short alley, they all jumped when a metallic gonging commenced. An ornately carved Grandfather Clock was chiming for the turn of the hour, standing proudly behind the shop’s window, pendulum swinging within the glass fronted housing.
“Fuck!” growled Jonesy. “Let’s move, I don’t want to be here if anything comes to check the time.”
Following his lead, the others jogged behind. A delivery truck was parked with the rear doors open, partly unloaded while other containers had been spilled when the first dead had attacked. The smell of rotten fruit was sweet and acrid, but the low temperature kept the decomposition under co
ntrol.
“I think the coast is clear. Jodi, would you mind keeping an eye out?” Jonesy asked, looking through the open doors.
“I’ll whistle if I see anything,” she replied, finding a good spot to keep watch.
The building comprised two sections, the original brick structure containing all the fruit and vegetables. Adjoining this was a corrugated metal building; a cheaper way to extend the property for the equipment and farming materials. Kurt stepped inside and gently struck a metal rack with his hammer, making enough noise to alert anything inside. The silence wasn’t broken by shuffling or moaning and they entered, searching for the supplies.
Jodi clenched her bat tightly, ready for any sign of the dead. Deciding to be proactive, she moved to the side of the building and checked down the side. It led to a small wooden fence and then nothing but open fields for miles around, the source of much of the goods that used to be sold. Backtracking, the other side was also clear, which left only the alleyway and either end of the promenade of shops to observe. Quiet conversation flowed from the open doors and she caught snippets as a discussion took place over what to prioritize. The cold was beginning to seep through her layers of clothing, so she decided to walk back and forth, patrolling the front of the building to get the blood flowing. On the third sweep, more conversation caught her attention but it wasn’t coming from the store. It was hushed and angry, coming from the ground ten feet from where she stood.
“What the hell?” she whispered to herself.
The snow started to shift and she quickly ducked behind a car, puzzled at what was occurring. Ignoring the chill, she lay down to look beneath the vehicle, trying to get a better view. A sheet of wood lifted and the light revealed the top of a head, looking warily around. The snow cascaded down, falling into whatever hole he was stood in.
“I don’t see any, let’s get this done and get the fuck back,” rasped an unfriendly voice and the sheet lifted completely, dropping to the rear. The man climbed out of the hole scowling, and the visible tattoos were unmistakable. Poorly inked prison markings stretched around his neck and covered his hands, even the fingers.
