by Ricky Fleet
“Go! Now! Come on, back to bed.” Christina bustled the huge man out of the room, much to the amusement of the others.
***
The snow had all but melted with the climbing temperature, only the thickest collections holding out against the thaw. The group had planned throughout the evening, working from a laminated map that all soldiers took with them. A course was plotted that would give them a full view of the perimeter of the prison.
“Can I have a word?” Jonesy asked as he joined Kurt on the viewing deck.
“Of course, I was just thinking.” Kurt pushed away from the edge and stood up, “What’s up, are we ready to go?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I’m ready when you are,” Kurt said, mistaking his intent.
“No. I want you to stay here,” Jonesy replied, “You are a great man to have at your back if shit goes south, don’t get me wrong.”
“So why do you want me to stay?” Kurt was confused.
“You are a hot head and it’s what has kept you alive. For this mission I want calm and collected, I want to take Sam and Braiden,” Jonesy explained.
“I don’t want my boys out there alone,” Kurt protested.
“They won’t be alone; they will be with me. I think they have what it takes to be great soldiers.”
“So they can fight, what of it? We can all fight when we need to.” Kurt was starting to get angry.
“Being a good soldier isn’t always about fighting. I want to teach them to blend in, to move unseen among the ashes of our old world.”
“I don’t think Sarah will go for it,” Kurt protested. He knew the soldier was right and any skills the trained killer could impart would increase the chances of survival for his children.
“She said to ask you.”
“Fuck!” Kurt tore at his hair, conflicting emotions running through his mind. “I know you want to help, but they are my boys.”
“Kurt, you have my word. If it looks dangerous, we will abort and come straight back. If anything happens, I will die to keep them safe,” he proclaimed and Kurt knew he was speaking true.
“Ok,” Kurt sighed.
“Yes!” Sam and Braiden cried out excitedly, running up the steps from the main cabin and high fiving each other.
“How long have you been listening?” Kurt asked with a scowl.
“Not long, Dad.”
“Only for a minute.”
“Boys, this isn’t a game,” Jonesy scolded the pair.
“We know, sorry,” Sam apologized.
“We are just happy to be doing something to help those people, Dad. We may be able to see something that can help us in the spring,” Braiden pointed out.
Kurt looked at all three; Jonesy with his look of determination and the two boys who were almost bouncing with nervous energy. “You better come back to me in one piece,” Kurt demanded and hugged them both close.
They rejoined the others and Sarah shrugged her shoulders at Kurt apologetically. It was impossible to know what was best for the boys, but hiding from the reality of their new existence would not be it. She had heard from Jodi that the streets were unusually quiet, which was the only reason they were being allowed to go. After dressing in dull greys and whites to blend in, they geared up and moved out onto the dock. Jonesy carried his suppressed rifle, and Sam had his slingshot whose rubber banding had been replaced. The steel bearings sang as Sam destroyed the small group of dead that had gathered at the bank, falling amongst those slain the day before.
“Ok, let’s move out,” Jonesy said and they rowed to the muddy shore, leaping out and running up the boat ramp.
“Be safe,” Sarah whispered, holding Kurt tightly.
“They will be fine,” Kurt said, keeping his fingers crossed, out of sight.
***
“Ground rules,” Jonesy looked at the boys who listened intently, “You are my shadows. You do not move unless I move, you do not speak unless I speak. Understand?”
They both nodded.
“After the shops we are going to move through a small housing estate. It’s a bit out of the way, but it will bring us out in sight of the main entrance of the prison,” he pointed at the map, drawing a line with his finger on their route, “We can watch for any signs of life and then scout around the walls.”
They nodded again.
“Let’s move.”
Jonesy ran from car to car, closely followed by the youngsters. After the first few maneuvers he was confident enough in their ability that he risked a glance over the top of the vehicle they were crouched by. They looked up at him expectantly, keen to impress. Nothing moved apart from a bedsheet that had been trapped by the overhead power lines. How it had got there he couldn’t say, but he watched it flutter gently in the breeze for a few moments. It triggered a memory of the barracks and his old friends. At dawn, the British flag had been raised to the familiar bugle call, a sound he remembered fondly.
“The coast is clear, stay low and stay vigilant,” Jonesy said, relaxing a little.
“Where are they all?” asked Sam.
“They must be at the prison, it’s all I can think of,” Jonesy guessed.
The shops were still dark and silent. No person, living or dead, remained inside as they carefully passed each frontage. An abandoned wedding dress shop gave Jonesy the creeps; the mannequins stared out, smiling coldly in their frozen poses. No one would ever wear the carefully crafted dresses, the work of many hours of loving assembly. Would anyone even honor the institution of marriage in a world abandoned by God? Sam followed the others and caught movement from the corner of his eye, a shadow moving amongst the darkness.
“Look out!” he called as the zombie pushed through the inanimate figures.
With a crack, the corpse slammed through the plate glass window which showered them in shards of glass. Braiden shook his head, scattering the fragments out of his hair. Before the monster could regain her footing, he slashed cleanly through her skull with his hatchet, spilling the brains.
“Hustle,” Jonesy whispered and started to run, seeking to put distance between them and the noise.
The road veered to the right and opened out onto the housing complex. They caught their breath while looking around the side of the first house.
“Good eye, Sam, I missed the bitch,” Jonesy complimented him.
“I didn’t see any more of them,” Braiden said, wiping the smeared blood onto the wet grass.
“They have to be at the prison. Where else would that racket not bring a hundred down on our heads?” Sam wondered.
“Nowhere,” Jonesy agreed and walked off down the road.
The scene was surreal. Cars sat in driveways. House and garage doors stood wide open, the valuable contents on show for any potential thief. Gardens that had been left untended suffered overgrown grass and dead flowers that should have been removed at the turn of the season. A set of swings rocked in the morning breeze, the seats now empty. Sam could imagine how much joy the simple toy had provided as a parent pushed them higher and higher, his own yelps of pleasure and fearful giggling as the ground rushed away were not forgotten. Jonesy walked up one driveway, checking if he had seen what he hoped. A rack of fishing rods, secure in their canvas holders stood in one corner.
“We will return this way and take these back with us to the boat. I haven’t been fishing in ages and it would be a good supplement to our diet.”
“I love fish!” Sam declared, salivating at the prospect of the warm white flesh.
“We could do with taking some of these tools with us too,” Braiden looked over the rows of neatly arranged equipment.
“And I’m supposed to be the mature one,” Jonesy chuckled, “All I was worried about was my stomach.”
“They may have tools at the castle,” Braiden admitted, “But it won’t hurt to be on the safe side.”
“Agreed. Wait here and keep your eyes open, I’m going to look for the keys for the four by four,�
� Jonesy directed and raised his rifle.
Standing by the side of the door, he dropped low and swept inside, disappearing from view. Reappearing minutes later with a set of keys he pressed the button, but nothing happened.
“Shit,” he muttered and threw them on the lawn, “Wrong keys.”
“We can find a vehicle later. There are plenty of homes on the way,” Sam said and they continued the journey.
They felt watched as they navigated the streets. The upper windows of the homes looked like eyes, judging them as they passed for their continued existence, while their owners wandered the earth, forever doomed. The rows of identical houses gave them a feeling of déjà-vu as they moved street by street closer to the prison.
“Can you hear that?” Jonesy asked the boys quietly.
“I think we have found them,” Sam agreed.
The unmistakable commotion grew with each step, the mournful wails of the missing villagers assailed their ears.
“There must be so many,” whispered Sam fearfully.
“Get down, I will take a look,” Jonesy ordered and they crouched obediently as he rushed to the corner of the street which, according to the map, led back to the main road through town. He crawled the last few feet, looking carefully around the low fence of the property. After a few seconds, he shuffled backwards and jogged back to the waiting teenagers.
“What did you see?” asked Braiden.
“Let’s get inside. That house overlooks the main gate.” Jonesy took them to the open front door of the dwelling. “We are too close for anything but axes.”
They made ready the sharp weapons and followed in low, imitating the soldier. The hallway smelled damp and musty, a common issue in derelict homes. The carpet was saturated from the snow which had blown inside and small fungi grew in the darker corners. Jonesy held a finger to his lips and pointed at his eyes, before directing them through into the living areas. They had seen enough movies to understand they were to search the lower floor. They moved as one unit, through the lounge and into the wide kitchen and dining area. The plates of maggot riddled food were not an unusual sight, and Sam found himself wondering if this was one of the families that had made it behind the prison walls. A crumpled picture was stuck by magnet to the fridge, depicting a crayon family having a picnic. The smiling green, blue, and pink faces beamed at the three who felt like interlopers under the waxy scrutiny.
“Garage,” Jonesy dared to whisper, pointing at a wooden door with a heavy lock designed to keep any burglars out should they make it through the metal rolling barrier.
Braiden and Sam watched the rear as he pulled the handle, exposing the pitch black interior.
“Anyone home?” Jonesy asked the darkness and paused, “All clear.”
“Upstairs?” whispered Braiden and Jonesy nodded.
The stairs creaked under the pressure, so Jonesy showed them to spread their legs and only walk on the edges of the wooden treads.
“They are the strongest part, no noise,” he said.
The hallway at the top of the steps was deserted and every door stood open.
“Housekeeping,” Jonesy called out quietly and, as he had assumed, the place was empty. The constant murmur of the dead would have pulled any residing within to the prison walls.
Jonesy took them into a rear bedroom; well-proportioned with a king sized bed and a plasma television mounted on the wall at the foot. The bed was unmade, sheets ruffled and the pillows still had the sunken impressions of their owner’s heads. The curtains were open but the lace underneath camouflaged them from any attention. Looking through the delicate fabric, they could see the fortified entrance to the prison. Built during the reign of Queen Victoria, the entrance comprised two viewing towers sat either side of the main wooden gate. The stern visage of the long dead monarch stared out from the brickwork where the artisans had inlaid two stone portrait carvings. The main gate had been forced open by the sheer weight of the undead, but they had been prevented from gaining entry to the inner prison by the reinforced steel inspection cage. The transports would be sealed within the area while checks were carried out, to ensure the paperwork was in order and no prisoners were trying to stow away and escape.
“They can’t make it inside can they?” Sam wondered.
“No, the steel bars are strong and it looks like they have been reinforcing them too,” Jonesy added.
The cage struts were joined with what looked like rectangular iron bed bases. The inmates must have unbolted them from the cells and welded them to the cage, strengthening the structure. The towers were adjoined by high brick walls, not unlike those of the castle they were hoping to reach, except for the coiled razor wire that stretched into the distance. Set along the perimeter were smaller watch towers and large mounted halogen spotlights for scanning the site during the long dark nights. The bulbs would likely never again burst into life, unless humanity could fight back and restore electricity. Jonesy lifted the binoculars and there were guards along the whole wall, certainly enough to ensure no raiding party could climb them unexpectedly.
“I think we know where all the locals went,” Braiden said, looking out, “And a few more besides.”
The walls were besieged by thousands of zombies, all beating uselessly against the stone. The closest had rubbed themselves raw, smears of gore were like a shiny skin on the dull brickwork. No patch of ground was left clear, so the worry of a raiding party would be even further down the prisoners’ concerns. It would have been as they had guessed; a battle through the dead, all while being observed by the dangerous looking men. They were unarmed, but Jonesy had no doubt they could muster firearms quicker than the group could fight through and climb the wall.
“I think we have seen enough,” Jonesy noted and moved away.
Sam stood a bit longer, watching and listening to the clang of bone on steel from the inspection courtyard. The dead were tightly packed inside, unable to move freely.
“Why don’t they just kill them through the bars?” Sam asked, “They would be safe.”
“Knowing what we know about the hostages, I think they are a convenient way to ensure they stay inside the walls, regardless of how they are being treated,” Jonesy offered but couldn’t be certain.
“Plus the secret tunnels mean they can get outside to raid anyway. There’s no need to destroy them,” finished Braiden.
They left the house and jumped through a neighboring garden to stay out of sight. Slowly but surely, they moved between cover using trees, hedges, and anything else offering concealment. Passing through a field that ran parallel to the prison, they heard a ruckus that wasn’t caused by the dead. A line of razor wire had been peeled back and a rickety platform had been constructed, projecting out and over the massed zombies. A group of men were standing on the platform that Braiden thought would collapse at any moment. In the background, lining the wall, stood weeping women and children.
“What the hell are they doing?” wondered Sam, crouching under the shadows of a mighty oak.
“You may want to look away, boys,” cautioned Jonesy. He had seen the aftermath of executions in Afghanistan, the inconsolable families of the slain.
“Why?” asked Braiden, until the men pushed one of their number to the fore. “Oh.”
He was dressed in the filthy uniform that had he had been wearing when the dead had risen. A prison guard, one of the kind souls who had thrown open the gates to offer the locals a chance at survival. Now he was to be used to make an example to the others, in case they had any ideas. One of the captors was obviously the leader, the way the men parted in deference to his passage.
“Do you think that’s him?” Sam asked Braiden.
“I don’t know, could be,” he replied.
“Could be who?” Jonesy was baffled by their discussion of the stranger.
“Mike’s fucking brother,” Sam muttered and took the binoculars.
The distance was reduced to nothing and the face that glared out into the day was indeed a sib
ling to Mike, the one and only Craig Arater. The similarities were many and Sam passed the viewing lenses to Braiden who agreed with the identification.
“It’s him. That’s who Mike and Debbie were trying to reach. Maybe still are if they survived the city. I hope they did so I can kill them,” he snarled with hatred.
“We could shoot him right now, that would teach them a lesson,” smiled Sam with malice, “You can hit him from this range, right Jonesy?”
“I could, but I won’t,” he responded quietly.
“Why the hell not?” Braiden demanded.
“Listen, you have to understand people. In a place like that, with the mad dogs running around without leashes, it takes an amazingly strong personality to keep them all in line. How do we know that by killing him we won’t be killing every survivor inside?” Jonesy tried to explain the psychology.
“We don’t,” admitted Braiden, “But they are murdering people already, what difference will it make?”
“I know it looks like random, cold blooded murder, but it isn’t. There is a purpose behind the platform, a sense of order. By sacrificing one person, they can probably ensure submission from everyone within the walls, prisoners and civilians alike. It’s a show of power over life and death,” he continued. Across the known world, despots used exactly the same tactics to cow their populace. It was a trick as old as time.
“I feel so useless,” admitted Sam sullenly.
“You aren’t,” Jonesy declared, “This is just the way things are now.”
“Oh God, look.” Braiden pointed.
They had tied a rope around the man’s ankles and moved him to the edge. Craig’s speech carried across the open field.
“You all know the punishment for breaking my rules. Yates ignored those rules, he tried to help some of you escape. I ask myself why? What is out there but death? In here you are safe. Well, almost safe,” he laughed.
“Mercy,” called out a female voice.
“Mercy? I don’t think so,” Craig bellowed and pushed the man in the back.
