It was all rather odd because my uncle had assured me there was no war and neither was there likely to be one in the future. 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 mere days from facing an invasion force of screeching Moors.
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, 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. How could you forget that the famine victims returned? Why, we’re at war with the dead, of course.” He said it so straight-faced that I couldn’t help but commence laughter in earnest.
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 once looking my way. 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 for us to command after famine and the Charge had taken their toll on our numbers.
I surveyed the rest of the fellows, half of whom had facial cuts or else clocks grim like Easter Island stone statues. But my attention was stolen by one particular captain who had the look and overall bearing of a raving, certifiably deranged psychotic, a man who’d seen too much, killed too many and had all the humour driven out from him, his cheek scars and eye patch only adding to the menace. You can wager 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 toward him as I attempted to blot out the numerous scuffs of boots on floorboard and other mutterings to overhear the chap by his side address him as Captain Lynch. I noticed how he stood taller than the rest around him and how the others had subconsciously placed him in the centre, their boots pointing into him. This was the regimental head case, alright, one not to upset, or outshine, or have anything to do with at all, not that I had any intention of upsetting his nest, you understand.
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 blaring horn who somehow had been allowed to hold command over us.
He continued speaking, his moustache established firmly over his lip like a bobbie’s truncheon. “Now, let’s not beat about the damned bush, what? No time for nonsense and small talk…our scouts have spotted some of the 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 of the Irish, the silly games they like to play, especially with new people joining the gang. Granted, they usually involved getting irreparably drunk before stuffing them overnight in the earth with only their heads poking out, 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 the men to assemble, Lieutenant Sheehan spent the time practising his sword arm, slashing and cutting the padded post and wafting sawdust into the breeze. His physical capabilities were impressive, which came from a lean and sprightly frame, a handy man to have at your side in a tavern brawl but likely 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 likely not be trusted. Though for whatever reason I could not bring myself to mistrust the lieutenant. He had one of those open and friendly faces that was quick to smile, green eyes and kept his cavalry whiskers closely cropped. He’d been with the 8th since several years before the Crimean War and was another survivor of the Charge I prayed wouldn’t bore me with tales of galloping headlong straight into artillery fire.
“I lacked the funds to purchase a captaincy,” he said, justifying his still being a mere Lieutenant, “but don’t worry, old boy, I bear you no malice for the leapfrog. I wouldn’t have wanted it anyway.” He jabbed the post a few more times then sheathed his sabre. “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 would never relate. “You’re not thinking of warming up…get the old blood flowing before we let fly at the dastards?” He drew a hand through his red locks and shook off the drops. “It’ll come in handy when the action starts.”
I squinted in the direction of the pristine horsemen who were trotting towards us, six troopers on six horses. Impressive as they undoubtedly were in their finery, but 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 stood back and regarded me briefly with admiration before donning his helmet. “Well then, we should probably get going, Captain.”
I motioned for him to wait and, since it was all one big stupid adventure anyway, and a joke on me, I decided to give a little something back, show I was one of the boys, 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. This might be how you Paddies do it but you’d not get away with it in England, let me tell you. 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 ever let me catch you in this state again or it’ll be the lash, and I’ll only be too happy to conduct the thrashing myself and as many a whore‘ll tell you, I don’t spare the welly.”
When I turned back Lieutenant Sheehan was gaping most admiringly a
nd as I was to find out, a Paddy lost for witty retorts is a rare thing. Finally, he spoke. “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 soon bring me to tears if he kept this up. “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, as we entered the bleak moorland ahead, I caught him making several dopey smirks from my flank.
Indeed, the moorland was bleak and the journey was made unnecessarily long by the mud tracks that snaked absurdly through hills and flatland alike, evidence to the workmanship of the drunken Paddy. We passed through a village with a stoney path, which Sheehan named as Stoneypath, I supposed it conserved drinking time, and each of the men clipped through with hands attached to sword hilts, such were the lengths they were willing to play along with my breaking in.
About half the houses were deserted, the rest having a combination of planks or front doors nailed over windows; it was a wonder of Irish carpentry, alright. There’d have to be a reason for the madness but I’d be damned if I could ever figure out an Irishman, especially when those few who remained seemed to share their homes with any and all livestock they could cram within 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 gloom as fast as possible, I kept my eyes front the entire time, which in comparison to the others must have looked composed.
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 the clattering of our horses. He was togged 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 were of the supposed 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 only to arrive in Strabane, or at least the next settlement with a whorehouse, so I could show the boys what a real breaking in was supposed to be. The idle rapscallion was doubtless all part of the joke anyway, some drifter paid in ale to stand around all morning for our arrival.
“Stay here and leave this ruffian to me lads,” I called out in a carefree tone, “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.”
His head twitched but his refusal to immediately submit to my instruction only angered me more.
“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.” A horse neighed from behind and I could sense my own steed proceeding with duress so I encouraged her onwards with my knees lest she stop altogether. “Are you deaf? I said move.” I brandished the crop and thrashed it across the man’s shoulders.
He turned around.
They say that when 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 the whole reason I was even in this situation, as I was whipping him for failing to adequately warm my chamber pot seat. If only I’d delegated the task to one of the more stout fags, Bentley or Carrington, or heaven forbid, perched on a cold seat, I wouldn’t right now be in this whole sorry mess.
The skin hung off its face like a bag on a rake, eyes set deep back in the skull as though they’d shrunk. His whole complexion was of sickly grey as a worm tried to wriggle free from a nostril. The freak’s jaw hung off one side to reveal gums that had receded so much the teeth roots were visible, while the smell was reminiscent of the Eton changing rooms after a particularly hard game of rugby. 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 that it cantered straight into the dense wood where I could see more of the freaks emerging from the murkiness. Perhaps it was the rumbling of hooves but to my disgust, they saw us and altered their original course to stagger directly into our path.
It all happened so quick that I never had chance to scream for help and a quick glance over my shoulder revealed only that I’d lost my men, I was alone. Paddy shouts of something utterly incomprehensible carried over on the breeze but through the noise, there was never any hope of interpreting such bastardised English.
I’d long since lost control of my horse who now galloped full whack, a traversing branch forced me to flail back in the saddle, leaves thrashed at my face, and through it all I was able to count ten of the creatures, each as ghastly as the one I’d so recklessly confronted and thrashed with my whip, for all the good that did and was likely to do now.
They seemed so completely uncoordinated, bumping into each other as they wandered and stood stubbornly in the path of my charging horse, which could only lead to obliteration upon contact. But then, either by accident or instinct, they staggered into a solid block, forming a mass of wretched death, a wall there’d be no hope of ploughing through. My horse came to the same appalling realisation because she skidded to a halt mere paces from the demons and sent me headlong over her plaited mane, hurtling through the air to land in a pile of leaves.
The wind was knocked out from me but worse than that, I’d twisted my ankle, which meant I’d have no hope of initiating my automatic flight response. That I was done was certain and as my eyes bulged, my mind fell into paralysis, which is what often happens in such situations, playing strange tricks and heightening useless details such as my horse, who’d put me in this situation, and who now chomped serenely on a clump of tall grass that sprouted from the earth. But I knew full well there were ten rotten carcasses dragging themselves in my direction. Indeed, it was impossible to look anywhere else.
I backed against a tree and watched, horrified, as the pack aggressively jostled one another to get me first. The blazes, but some truly were the picture of hideousness and each had that empty glare behind the eye that just screamed - Nobody home.
I was on the verge of contemplating my death, all my regrets, how
I’d never found love, when I remembered my pistol, which I drew with haste, fumbled for the trigger and pulled. Having primed it myself, the thing misfired, leaving me only able to accept the death that must now surely fall upon me in the most grisly manner at the hands of these beasts.
All I had now was my sword but whilst falling, the scabbard had somehow twisted around my body and lodged beneath my weight. I screamed for my mother as the first enemy fell down upon me - With the top of its head missing.
Then the hooves were beating in close proximity as my beautiful trooper, two in fact, had somehow managed to find me. They downed three in quick succession, cleaving blades sweetly across heads.
I saw it in slow motion but was still too mentally crippled to help and then the first trooper screamed in agony as one of those things bit into his leg. He tumbled from his mount as two of them savagely tore him apart. I was absolutely gripped by the sight as my body refused to listen to my screams, to get up and run, all the way to the coast from where I’d swim, swim the bloody sea if need be, all the way to England, safety, and just try stop me.
The remaining trooper slashed at another fiend before drawing his pistol on one more and firing, turning its head into red mist. He swung at another, missed, and whilst off balance was tugged from his horse by a gang of three. Mercifully, he landed on his feet, impaling one on the way down with a hammer like blow. He was like a killing machine while all I could do was grasp my bloodless face and screech. Then, through large sweeping blows of his sabre, we shared a moment, clocking each other from across the carnage and he knew it then, everything clicked into place, that I wasn’t the brave warrior volunteering to help a friend in need but instead, through some masterful ineptitude, I’d somehow found myself amidst this madness like only a true imbecile could.
Zombie Revolution Page 48
