Undead UK: Remember Me Dead Read online

  Every undead head in the park jerked round at the sound.

  The running dead were first off the blocks, streaking past their slower brethren to converge on the swimming baths, torn, shabby clothing flying behind them, loose and worn out shoes flapping. The fast foot-draggers came next, urging their ripped-open muscles and torn tendons onwards. They displayed the same energy, the same ferocious blood lust as the runners, but their damaged limbs refused to play ball. Behind them, the shamblers tottered in their wake, mouths agape, eyes vacant, battered sleepwalkers with cracked skulls and limp arms. Whether because of brain deterioration or because the protozoa took too long to revive them after death, they lagged behind, swaying and stumbling like drunks trying to prove their sobriety to a traffic officer.

  Breht watched them all, silently willing the shamblers to move a little faster, until a large enough gap opened up in the park, the runners having already crashed through the remaining swimming pool windows in search of some fleshy prize.

  Breht heaved himself out of the water and scrambled onto the bank, boots slipping on the wet mud. His sodden leathers and soaked backpack turned his uphill run into a tortured jog as he sagged under the extra weight. It was no different from an average army exercise in the Welsh hills, however, and though he wasn’t a massive fan, he knew he could do it. With his sword out, he maintained his vigilance in case of undead stragglers or opportunists, and halfway up the slope he noticed that the guard on the tower was gone.

  He hoped it was because he was rushing down to open a door for him.

  Dashing through the park gates, Breht skidded to a halt on the road. Further down the street, in both directions, were undead who hadn’t fallen for his diversion, and his sudden appearance drew the attention of one.

  The undead were like sheep. When one moved, the others soon followed. The one who’d spotted him lurched in his direction, disturbing the repose of a nearby standing group, who all turned to gaze, first at the moving zombie, then at Breht. A runner snapped out of its catatonic state and suddenly began its hungry sprint.

  Breht dashed to the main entrance at the base of the tower and banged his fist on the great wooden doors.

  The comforting sound of heavy bolts being drawn back didn’t come. Breht banged harder still, watching the zombie runner close the distance.

  Jesus, why won’t they open the doors? Are they going to let me die out here?

  Considering how short food must be for surviving communities, Breht thought that maybe they could. Readying his sword, he turned to face the oncoming threat. If he was quick, he could dispatch this one zombie and take off back to the river. It would be tight, but he could maybe just do it.

  “Hey,” shouted a voice.

  Breht looked around, trying to locate the source. The wooden doors were still shut.

  “Over here, you idiot!”

  The sound came from the other side of the tower, at the point where it joined the body of the church. In a narrow crevice was a small door, and as Breht raced round, willing hands grabbed him and dragged him inside, slamming the door behind him and locking it. Seconds later a body thudded against the other side of the door.

  In the gloom of a small stone vestibule, Breht bent over to catch his breath and ease his beating heart. A balding man loomed over him.

  “Are you okay?” said the man.

  “Yes,” said Breht. “Yes, thanks.”

  The man stepped back and, as his eyes adjusted to the light, Breht saw several people crowded together, all pointing shotguns at him. “That’s okay, then. Now drop your sword and turn around.”

  8

  “It’s not him.”

  That was the comment Breht heard as he was ushered onto the flagstones of the church entry hall. Grey light from the high windows illuminated the whitewashed walls and the faces of the children who looked down on him from the top of a wrought iron staircase. Through the double doors of the cavernous church interior, more faces peered in, a mixed picture of anxiety and curiosity.

  “Not who?” he said.

  His enquiry went unanswered and he was ordered to strip naked. Three middle aged men and one young woman kept their shotguns trained on him. They didn’t appear particularly warlike, the men looking like they’d been called out from an evening watching the television with a beer and snacks. Their slack faces, however, were hardened by malnutrition and suspicion. Only the young woman appeared willing to smile, a glint in her eye as she watched Breht remove his clothing.

  The balding man, who appeared to be the leader, had a worried look on his drooping face. Unarmed, and wearing a thick woollen pullover, he adjusted his glasses to peer at Breht’s sword. It was with a certain distaste that he picked it up, gingerly examining the blade.

  “It’s just like the other man’s,” said one of the posse.

  The balding man nodded gravely.

  “What other man?” asked Breht.

  Again, they refused to answer his question. The leader picked up the dropped holster and pulled out the revolver with two fingers, as if it was somehow contaminated. His difficulty in opening the cylinder showed his unfamiliarity with firearms, and he seemed relieved to see that the chambers were empty.

  “Please, spread your legs and raise your arms,” he said.

  Breht did just that, and the man examined Breht’s skin in painstaking detail.

  Looking for bite marks.

  “You’ve been shot,” he said, looking closely at the wrinkled scar tissue of a bullet hole in Breht’s chest, and at the larger exit wound on his back. “You were lucky.”

  “You could say that,” said Breht. He was getting cold.

  “How did you survive that?”

  “Good question.”

  The man took in his physique. “You don’t look too starved. You’ve been taking care of yourself.”

  “I’ll say,” said the woman, staring at his butt. The assembled posse laughed, lightening the atmosphere somewhat.

  “And none of those things managed to bite you or scratch you in any way?” continued the man.

  “No,” said Breht.

  “He’s well protected,” said another, rapping his knuckles on the hard leather plates of Breht’s coat.

  The man fingered the chainmail collar, trying to solve an enigma. Casting a baffled eye at the children’s toys that spilled out of the opened pack, he said, “Are you some sort of scavenger?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been living out there on your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you just happened to be passing by.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you’re just a random traveller.”

  “Yes.”

  The man pursed his lips. “And what if I don’t believe you? Is there anything you can say that could make me trust you?”

  “No.”

  “Just no?”

  “You don’t have to trust me. I’ll just trade my stuff and be on my way.”

  The man was amused. “Be on your way? Just like that?”

  “Yes.”

  The man stared at him, still trying to read him. “I can’t say I’ve encountered anyone who wasn’t looking for sanctuary. Are you really some itinerant salesperson?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re going to go back out when you’ve finished?”

  “Yes.”

  The man rubbed his face, tiring of the interrogation. “I honestly don’t know how you’ve survived so far, but I think you’re mad. We’ll keep your weapons until you’re ready to go. Peter, can you find a blanket for him while we dry his things? And Laura, can you make him some soup?”

  The woman lowered her shotgun in a petulant huff. “Do I have to?”

  The man gave an impatient sigh. “No darling, you don’t have to. I just thought it would be the polite thing to do.”

  Laura muttered something incomprehensible and stomped off.

  “My daughter,” said the man by way of explanation. “My name’s William. And
yours?”

  “Breht.”

  “Well, Breht, welcome to St Chads, for what it’s worth.”

  *

  Being inside St Chads was like being inside a wedding cake, with a circle of pillars holding up the second floor gallery, and more pillars holding up the white ornamented roof. Everything seemed covered in a layer of white frosting, with chocolate brown teak benches laid out in rows, and gold adorning the curling volutes that decorated the pillar tops. Stained glass windows brought colour to the high walls and plaques named the wealthy 18th century benefactors who’d bought their place in heaven, their receipts carved in stone. What they would have thought if they could see the survivors of the apocalypse sleeping on the benches and collecting rainwater in buckets from the drips that discoloured the frosting was not recorded.

  Communal life, so far as Breht could see, centred around the fending off of boredom. Clothes were stitched and restitched, or taken apart and the thread used for more stitching. Vegetable roots were scraped and washed, then stared at for a while. Books that had been read a thousand times were read once more. Children were directed to play somewhere else, or subjected to a reluctant face washing. Conversations were muted, and punctuated with long silences. Everybody glanced frequently at Breht, the only novel thing in their mundane routines.

  Sitting in his damp underwear, with a blanket on his shoulders, Breht sipped at his bowl of thin vegetable soup. He glanced back at the onlookers, studying them as they studied him, and noticed a distinct demographic gap in the population. Young children abounded, as did those above forty, and higher, but apart from Laura, there were no teenagers or younger adults.

  “The average age here is pretty high, isn’t it?” he said to William.

  Of everybody in the church, William was studying him the hardest, keeping him under stern-faced observation as he sat opposite him on a pew. “Is that a joke?” he said, annoyed.

  “It’s an observation,” said Breht.

  “You’re implying something.”

  “No, simply stating the obvious.”

  “Is it something you want to take advantage of?”

  “Not sure why I would.”

  “There still exist people who’d like to try.”

  “I’m sure there are. You’re right to be cautious.”

  “So I should be wary of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t know me.”

  William fell silent, struggling with some unsaid puzzle.

  “Why don’t you tell me about the other man who had a sword like mine?” asked Breht.

  William picked at a loose thread on his trousers.

  “What happened, William?”

  William snapped the thread. “You know, I nearly didn’t let you in.”

  He sounded mournful, as if it was a thing he didn’t like to admit about himself. Breht stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.

  “We lost a lot of the younger people to scavenging expeditions. It was natural enough that the youngest and fittest would volunteer first, but attrition whittled them down, taken by the undead or... well, simply never returning.” William sighed deeply. “Even Martin, the man who set up this sanctuary, was lost while out on an expedition. He was a capable man, a fireman, and a natural leader. The other man with the sword, who arrived from the outside just like you did, got on well with him. He offered his services to go out on a foray into the town centre, and the rest of the young people joined him and Martin. And off they went. Now they’re all dead.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them. Martin was the only survivor, and we witnessed his attempt to get back to us, but he never made it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. Laura’s only here because I forbade her to go. Now that I’m in charge, I’m not willing to let anyone out anymore.” William looked around. “They all think I’m risk averse, and it’s true. We can’t afford to lose more people. Once you choose to leave, you’ll leave by yourself.”

  “Okay.”

  William stood up, pausing briefly as if still considering his decision, then walked away. Breht watched him go, certain of only one thing.

  He hadn’t been given the full truth yet.

  *

  The altar stood in a high domed alcove, beneath a stained glass window that depicted the body of Jesus being taken down from the cross by his followers. In contrast to the surrounding bright colours, Jesus was grey, and Breht thought he looked just like the undead – an idea that gave the Resurrection a whole new meaning. Breht remembered the army padre giving a speech in the chapel about Jesus achieving victory over death. Turned out that the protozoa didn’t think that was just a metaphor.

  “Daddy feels guilty,” said Laura in a low voice.

  She’d changed out of utilitarian clothing into a low cut summer dress that was too thin for the prevailing conditions.

  “He never wanted to be in charge,” she continued, “but everyone else is such a coward. When Martin died, everybody else wrung their hands and asked him to take over. My father, sentimental traditionalist that he is, suggested an election, but nobody else was willing to stand. Now they plague him with incessant demands to solve their problems, as if he was some sort of demi-god. And he takes it to heart.”

  “Your father’s got nothing to feel guilty about. Things could be a lot worse. They are, everywhere else.”

  “Oh, Daddy’s a worrier. It’s the way he is. Ever since Mummy died, he’s been extra protective. And he thinks he should have done more to stop Martin going out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like warn him. Martin was listening to that other man with the sword like yours. I think he was a soldier. He looked the type.”

  “And your father didn’t trust him.”

  “Not at all. He told me to stay away from him, which was a pity, because I thought he looked quite handsome. I like adventurous men.”

  Laura adjusted her dress to reveal more cleavage.

  “Your father was right. Adventurism’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Oh I don’t know. You’re quite an adventurer yourself. Have you come far?”

  “Far enough. Tell me more about this other man.”

  Laura leaned over with a mock pout. “Daddy has forbidden me to talk about him, but the tower would be a nice quiet place to, er, divulge certain secrets.”

  “Is it? Does it have a good view over the town?”

  “Oh, very. I can show you the sights,” she said with a disarming smile.

  Breht thought she probably could, but her flirtations were cut short by William’s shout from across the church. “Laura! Come over here now.”

  “I’m just talking, Daddy,” she called back.

  “I don’t care. Put on some warmer clothes, you’ll catch your death.”

  “That’s not all I could catch,” said Laura coyly, but she obeyed her father, strutting away with a coquettish swish of her dress. Later, she mouthed to Breht.

  A sharp eared old woman some yards away tutted once she’d gone. “She’s such a slut, that girl,” she muttered, not raising her head from her darning.

  “Can’t imagine why,” said Breht, glancing round at the elderly community.

  “And it’s not true that we press William with unreasonable demands. He’s just easily stressed.”

  Breht nodded to himself. “Leadership can have that effect.”

  9

  After Wolfy’s death, Breht drove the train. It gave him a chance to think, and be alone.

  Nobby’s insubordination bothered him. He hadn’t spoken to him since, but he knew he was going to be a problem in the near future. There was going to be another confrontation and he had to settle it, one way or another. Nobby was right, though. Society had collapsed and the army’s traditional command structures had gone with it. His stripes meant nothing if he couldn’t back them up with his own personal authority.

  The trouble was, he wasn’t su
re he wanted to anymore. His world had fallen apart once already, and he hadn’t coped well with it. Now the real world was disintegrating as well, and he still didn’t feel ready for the challenge. He’d lost his mojo and he didn’t feel fit to lead. The temptation to jack it all in and hand over command to someone else was... well, tempting. He had no idea what he was doing nor where he was going. He’d been happy enough to drink himself to death before all this started, and if the truth be told, he just wanted to crawl back and continue with that.

  Leading the group required a belief in a better future – a future worth fighting for. And right now, that was a qualification seriously lacking from his CV. Back in barracks, he’d struggled to get up every morning just to face the day. Crawling into the bottle was the closest he could get to long term hibernation, and he didn’t want to wake from it.

  Well, he was wide awake now, and there wasn’t a drop of booze to be had. It was cold turkey with a vengeance, and it sucked.

  Driving a train was perfect for him, as he didn’t have to choose where it went. He was just coasting, which was pretty much all he’d ever done. He didn’t want to break that bleak serenity with a real, honest to God decision.

  But he had to make one soon. The track wasn’t infinite, and neither was daylight. He’d accelerated the train though some small, rural stations when he’d seen the undead meandering on the platforms. A few had tried to jump the train, but their diseased brains lacked the ability to judge speed and they only succeeded in slamming into the side before being cast off. In between stations, however, Breht slowed the train down again. He was worried about other, abandoned trains on the tracks. When darkness finally came, he would have to stop completely, because the risk of collision would be too great, but stopping was the last thing he wanted to do. The uncertainty ate at him.