Zombie Survival: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller Read online

  And so, they beat a retreat back toward their battalion who were over the next ridge, and still fighting a desperate action against the Argentinean surprise attack. Their guns roared in their hands, and all enemy forces that appeared before them were felled in an instant. It was harsh and bloody work, and soon the rough grasses were soaked with gleaming blood. But at last they made the rise beyond which their own battalion were stationed.

  And they were half way up the bank when Tommy Landsdowne let out a sudden scream.

  Ted whirled around, gazing back at his comrade who was some ten meters down the bank. He had fallen, his gun tumbled to one side, and he was clutching his right leg. Bright blood pumped and squirted through his fingers, and Ted’s first thought was: artery – oh my God, it’s an artery...

  Hastily doubling back, Ted scrambled back down the rocky slope to where his stricken comrade lay. He squatted down beside him, running his eyes over his body, gazing at the blood that relentlessly cascaded from the wound.

  “They fucking clipped me mate,” Tommy gasped from between clenched teeth.

  But Ted could see that it was more than clipped. It was a deep wound, a direct shot, the bullet possibly lodged in the bone. And his first thought had been correct. It had caught an artery. There could be no other explanation for the ferocity of the blood flow. And now, Tommy started to shout stark cries of pain as the agony of the wound hit home.

  In a split second, Ted ripped off the scarf that he’d been wearing and plugged it against the wound. He bound it as tight as he could, then hoisted his back pack off, intent on finding the first aid kit inside. But before he could do any of that, more bullets tore into the ground around him. Ted snatched his own gun up and whipped it around, letting forth a furious volley of gunfire in the direction from which the enemy fire had come. He could see figures further down the slope, clearly Argentinean soldiers, and plenty of them. A couple fell beneath his gunfire – more arteries burst perhaps, more blood pumping into the morning air – but others gathered, and fresh gunfire burst around him.

  “Fuck this,” Ted hissed after releasing another volley of gunfire, “gotta haul you out of here mate. Put your arm around my neck.”

  “No,” Tommy said through clenched, agonised teeth, and shook his head, “fuck that mate. We’d never make it the two of us up that slope, you dragging me and me barely able to move. You go off. Get back to the battalion. Tell them to come back with reinforcements. I’ll hold ‘em off until then.”

  Ted gazed desperately around. He saw yet more enemy soldiers approaching up the slope. There was no way that just one man could hold them off – particularly a man who had been shot in the leg and was leaking blood like air out of a punctured tyre. There was no way that two fully fit men could hold off this army. Ted glanced desperately up the slope, hoping that his own battalion would appear over its ridge. But this wasn’t a war film, and there’d be no cavalry charging in to save the day. There was just him, his wounded comrade, and about a million – or so it seemed - enemy soldiers advancing. Just him, and the shittest decision in the universe. Stay here with his fallen comrade and die, or retreat, leave his comrade, and live to fight another day? The mathematics of it was simple – one soldier dead and one still living would be more useful than two soldiers dead. Yes, the mathematics he could do, but the morality... ah, the morality...

  Suddenly, something hit Ted on the arm. For one horrible moment, he thought that he’d been shot, but then he saw that it was Tommy who had hit him with one pale, balled fist, shocking Ted out of the deadly reverie that he had fallen into.

  “Go on, you stupid bastard,” Tommy raved at him, “fuck off back over that ridge and get back to the battalion. Tell them what’s happened and to get reinforcements. Go now!”

  A fresh volley of enemy fire raged around them. Somehow, it managed not to hit either of them, but the ground around them was churned into dust, grasses slashed and holes punched deep by the furious bullets. Ted fired another volley of his own; just to discourage any further advancement. Then he looked down at Tommy.

  “My gun...” said Tommy, “...just give me my gun.”

  Desperately, Ted peered around, until he saw where the machine gun was lying. He snatched it up and handed it to Tommy.

  “There...” said Tommy, “right as rain. Now fuck off, Hanaghan. I don’t want to see your ugly mug a moment longer. Just get the fuck over that ridge and get help.”

  With a vicious curse, Ted swung his backpack on and then hefted his gun in front of him. He let forth a volley of gunfire down the bank toward the advancing enemy. And then, with gritted teeth and a kind of burning horror in his heart, he turned and started clambering up the bank, toward where its rocky summit met the pale and louring sky. The journey only lasted some two or three minutes, but to Private Ted Hanaghan, it was the longest and most dreadful journey that he had ever made. At any moment he expected a volley of gunfire to tear into his back, ripping his flesh and spilling his blood onto the bitter earth. But that wasn’t by any means the worse of it. The worse of it was that he knew that he was leaving Tommy – his comrade, his mate – wounded and at the mercy of the enemy. He expected Tommy to call something out, some last words, some final farewell, or perhaps to start screaming. But there was nothing. Tommy remained silent – perhaps knowing that any utterance might have the power to bring Ted running back.

  It was soul shredding horror beyond imagining, but such was a soldier’s lot.

  And so, he made it over the ridge, and found his battalion, and reported the situation to his commanding officer. The battalion organised and sent a detachment back over the ridge with Ted. And there they encountered the Argentinean soldiers, and battle was joined. Machine guns roared, white hot metal flew, flesh was shredded, and blood was spilled. So much blood. But at last the enemy beat a retreat, and the territory was secured – for now. And then the situation was assessed, an account of the dead made.

  And among them, Tommy.

  They found his corpse lying where Ted had left him. The body had been riddled with bullets, but they would never know whether that had been sustained in the battle, or whether he had been shot and killed in cold blood. Ted hadn’t remembered hearing any gunfire as he fled back to his battalion, but you never knew... this was a vicious war, with no quarter given. It wasn’t a Boy’s Own adventure story or a cricket match. It wasn’t a game where if you played by the rules you’d be okay. It was war: dirty, savage, remorseless, unfair... yes, always so unfair.

  And the war had continued through a further twelve months of relentless combat: gunfire, pitched battles, bayonets, ferocity. And through it all, Ted Hanaghan fought like a man possessed. A man possessed by demons, by devils, by a dark and burning horror of guilt - because everywhere he saw Tommy. In the heat of the fiercest battle, or in the depths of fractured, troubled dreams, always that pale face, always that shattered leg, always that smart smile and sharp comment that would echo through his mind before waking from the dream, whether it was sleeping or awake. A ghost, a haunting: a vision that he could never dispel. Something that he, Ted Hanaghan, had abandoned there on a rocky slope and now came back to him, day in and day out. And in the heat of battle he was a mad man, he was a lunatic, he was uncontainable, and sometimes even dangerous to himself and to those around him. Because when he fought, he did not just fight the enemy. He fought his own guilt. But, no matter how many bullets he poured into that enemy he could never slaughter it. The guilt remained no matter how many rounds he fired and fired, or how many of the enemy he destroyed.

  “Ted...”

  No matter how many of their number he reduced to bleeding wrecks on the ground, no matter how many piles of corpses he heaped the earth with.

  “Ted...!”

  No matter how many times they came at him, wave after wave, rank upon rank, enemy after enemy, he cut them down without remorse, but he could never kill the worse enemy of all: that burning, terrible guilt.

  “TED!!

  Suddenly, Ted
snapped back into reality - or rather, into the reality of the present. He gazed around, bewildered. Here was a young man’s face in front of him: strained, pale frightened. Good God, was it Tommy’s, come back to him after all these years? No... it wasn’t Tommy, it looked nothing like Tommy, the dark hair, the fact that his face was covered in stubble – Christ, they wouldn’t let you get away with that in the military. So who was this young man, another of the dead, another of his fallen comrades – again no! And then a name: Dave. Of course, the young man’s name was Dave, and he wasn’t a soldier, and neither was Ted a soldier any more, and this wasn’t the Falkland Islands, that conflict was long gone, the blood long since drained away, the dead long since laid to rest – except from in dreams, in nightmares...

  No, Ted was not a soldier any more. But he was holding a gun in his hand – not the formidable machinegun of the old days, but a rifle – and he was pointing it through a window. His window, of his farmhouse – the farmhouse to which he’d retreated many years ago to escape the madness and the cruelty of the world. And beyond the window...

  Beyond the window were the dead. They had returned, from all those long years in the quiet cold soil. And was Tommy Landsdowne amongst them...?

  “Ted...” said Dave again, his voice quieter now, more gentle, “...just calm down man. You lost your shit there for a moment.”

  Slowly, Ted relaxed. He withdrew the gun from the window, and then retreated from window with a couple of slow, unsteady steps. He retreated from the dead, who still milled out there in their thousands. He retreated from the past.

  “I’m sorry...” Ted said in a harsh and shuddery whisper. He wasn’t sure exactly who he was saying sorry to. Maybe to Dave. Maybe, once again, to Tommy. Maybe to the dead out there who had returned to him with unfinished business.

  “It’s okay,” Dave returned, slowly, uncertainly, “it’s just that... well, you had me scared for a moment. Looked like you were coming apart big time.”

  “Flashback,” said Ted, “have them every once in a while. Never had one as strong as that though. Christ, it was almost as though it was all happening again right in front of me. It was as though I was back there...”

  “Back there? You mean the Falklands?” asked Dave.

  Ted nodded. “Yes. The Falklands. All those years ago, and yet it seemed as though it was happening to me right now. Right in front of my eyes. Well, stress usually brings it on. Either stress or depression or fear. God knows I’ve enough of all that in the last few hours.”

  “What’s going on...?” came a groggy voice from the other side of the room. Ted glanced in that direction and saw that it was Jenny. She had awakened and was peering at them, her face a pale circle in the gloom. Shaun, it seemed, was still asleep: a dark, slumped figure against the wall.

  “It’s nothing, Dave replied, “...everything’s cool. Go back to sleep.”

  Jenny shrunk back against the wall. Her head settled to one side. From beyond the bedroom door, there came a brief thump as something stumbled against it. Dave glanced toward the door, concern upon his face. But when he saw that the barricade remained unmoved, he looked back at Ted.

  “Must have been rough out there huh?” Dave said at last, “the Falklands I mean...?”

  Slowly, Ted nodded. “You don’t think too much about it at the time. Not when you first go in anyway. You’re a professional soldier with a job to do. Perhaps, to an extent, you even relish the opportunity to put all that training to use and have a go at an enemy. But after Tommy was killed...”

  “Tommy?” asked Dave.

  So Ted told Dave the story. Tommy on the hill, Tommy with the destroyed leg, and his bullet riddled body that they’d found after the battle. In one way it was good to talk about Tommy, like a relief, a heavy weight removed from his chest. But in another way it was dreadful, like confessing to a crime that as yet remains unatoned for. And when he had finished telling the story, his words hung heavy in the air, seemed to create their own dark atmosphere that was separate from all the horror they had experienced that day.

  “Christ...” said Dave, when Ted had finished his story.

  “That’s why I eventually came here,” Ted gestured at the surrounding bedroom and farmhouse in general, “to this remote place. After I left the army I got some disability pay, and a wealthy relative of mine had died had left me some dough, so I bought this place. It was not much more than a ruin when I first bought it, but I did it up as best I could. And here I have been ever since. A recluse. A hermit. Trying to live as far away from the world and all its pain and horror as I could possibly get. But now... well, it looks like the world has found me again. With a vengeance.”

  As if to emphasise Ted’s point, their came another fumbling thump against the bedroom door, while from somewhere downstairs, their came the sound of something breaking. While outside, the moaning of the dead went on and on like an endless Antarctic wind.

  “With a vengeance...” Ted said again, almost whispering the words. Then he glanced around at Dave, “I don’t know about you, Dave, but I feel exhausted. I’m going to get my head down for a while, see if I can catch some kip.”

  Dave nodded, “alright. I’ll stay here by the window a tad longer. We need to keep a lookout I reckon. Just in case...”

  “Agreed,” Ted replied, “but wake me up in an hour or so, if I’m not already. We can take the watch in turns.”

  It seemed that Dave was about to protest against this, but then he relaxed and nodded. Then he turned to the window, and once again gazed out upon the restless night.

  Ted, meanwhile, settled himself down on the floor, not far from Shaun and Jenny. There was the bed that he could have used, of course, but for some reason he felt as though he didn’t want to use it. Maybe it was too close to the door and what lay beyond it. Or maybe he just wanted the security of a solid wall behind his back. Whatever the reason, he was soon settled. He kept the rifle close by him, with one arm lay across it. Just in case.

  But, despite his sudden feeling of exhaustion, Ted found sleep very hard to come by. Constantly, he seemed to hear the rattle of machine gunfire and the boom of heavy artillery, distant but approaching. He seemed to see the bleak, grassy terrain of a long ago battlefield and the cries of triumph and screams of agony of the men who fought upon it. And he saw the face of Tommy Landsdowne, just as he had done in many a dream, a memory, a nightmare, in all these years gone by. Tommy Landsdowne, his comrade, his mate, who had died upon the rocky slopes of a foreign hill.

  And he heard the voices of the dead, moaning like the nightwind, lamenting like a thousand unhappy memories...

  TWELVE

  “Oh God – oh shit – I gotta get out of here man – I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE!!”

  Suddenly, Ted jerked awake. For a moment he could feel harsh grasses and rocks beneath him, he could hear the sound of gunfire, of explosions, of men roaring with the urgency of battle. But these impressions soon fell away, and he realised that he was not in the Falklands, that no harsh rocks lay beneath him, that there was no gunfire, and that his comrades in battle had all either long since died or gone away.

  But there was something happening. Something bad. Something violent. Something that would have to be dealt with, and dealt with fast. And again that screeching, desperate voice:

  “OH GOD I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE!!”

  Groggily, Ted groped upward from the floor, peering around and trying to get his bearings. It was still dark, but a certain pale radiance was falling through the window – maybe moonlight, maybe starlight – and by its light, Ted could see the room well enough. He could see the bare expanse of floor, stripped of furniture; he could see the dark forms of the furniture – wardrobe, dresser, and bed – piled up against the door. And by the furniture and the door, he could see the forms of people, moving, struggling, screaming and shouting.

  “I GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE MAN!!”

  “Shaun no!” a woman’s voice, desperate, beseeching: terrified. Jenny, “for God’s sake, Shau
n, you’ll get us all killed!”

  “Come on man, don’t be an idiot!” – Another voice, a man’s, Dave’s. Like Jenny he sounded beseeching, terrified, desperately trying to stop something – whatever it was – from happening. “For God’s sake Shaun, stop being a complete dickhead and come away from the door!”

  With a quiet, rasping curse, Ted struggled up from his position on the floor. He winced in pain as seized up joints and muscles cried their protest. Damn it all – in the military he’d have been able to sleep in a hole in the ground and get up the next morning as fresh as if he’d been sleeping on a feather bed – but he’d been a younger man then: his body stronger, his muscles more supple, his joints more agile, and the hair on his face a black vigorous moustache rather than a grey straggly beard. Nowadays, even getting up off a bedroom floor was a major task it seemed.

  But he made it eventually, and then hobbled across to the barricade, the doorway beyond, and the people who struggled before it.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Ted rasped; his voice thick with sleep.

  Dave glanced around, and his face was a pale and worried disk hovering in the darkness, reflecting moonlight, “its Shaun...” Dave said at last, “he’s gone crazy. He’s - ,”

  “Shaun – no!” Jenny suddenly screamed.

  There came a sudden loud grinding, thumping sound. Ted saw some large dark object sway in front of him, and he realised that it was the wardrobe that they had placed against the door. He saw something beside the wardrobe: a figure struggling, pushing. Shaun – he uttered no words now, but a single keening whine issued from his throat that sounded desperate, terrified, and utterly demented.

  “Shaun – fuck’s sake – no!”

  Dave leaped forward and fell upon Shaun. He seized him around the arms and shoulders and started to pull him bodily away from the wardrobe, which had slid back into a somewhat unsteady position against the wall. Shaun screeched, and writhed in Dave’s grip. To begin with, Dave had succeeded in pinning Shaun’s arms to his sides, but, using the energy of sheer desperation, Shaun succeeded in freeing one of his arms. He balled his hand into a fist and lashed out at Dave. The blow caught Dave full in the face, and Dave released his grip on Shaun sufficiently for the other man to free himself. He forced Dave away with a savage push, and then, screaming dementedly, he fell upon the wardrobe again: shoving, pulling, trying to move it. He would have done better, Ted realised, if he had tried to move the bed and dresser first, but such rational thought seemed to be beyond Shaun.