The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 4) (48 page)

“You take good care of yourself, Al,” Tommy called after him.

Al could not bring himself to look back, but instead raised his hand in acknowledgement while he trundled through the soft sand, his legs feeling heavy and his body shaking uncontrollably as his head began to spin all the more.

Tina watched him approach as she stood waiting on the pier. She had said her goodbyes to Tommy and made a point of leaving him be, allowing him to spend his final hours with his best friend. At that time, they needed one another more than they needed her, but she was fully aware that in the coming days she and Al would need one another more than ever as they both came to terms with the devastating loss of Tommy.

He reached the boat and refused to meet anyone’s gaze as he climbed aboard. He was the last to arrive, with the beach now almost completely abandoned except for Tommy. Without a word, he jumped up onto the foredeck and stood at the bow and watched the distant shape of his friend as the juddering fishing trawler slowly pulled away from the jetty. In a final farewell, before the boat made its turn to head for open water, Al raised his arm and waved in a closing salute to his friend.

Tommy faded into the distance, but he would
never
fade from Al’s mind.

26

It was five days later when a vibrating hum rippled through the hull of the ferry, causing the windows to rattle lightly in their corroded frames and loose objects to jiggle their way across tables and crash to the floor. The engines were running, and the sighs of relief and jubilation from all on board could be heard over the steady thrum of the massive pistons as they pounded away in the bowels of the ship.

Paul had needed to more or less strip the engines down to their component parts, but he had somehow managed to make them work again. With the help of Steve, Mark, and the other mechanics, and while the remainder of the survivors toiled endlessly to make the vessel watertight and seaworthy, the power was restored to the decrepit ship. 

There were still many minor repairs and maintenance to carry out before they could begin their journey south, but the hard part was over and behind them. That night the survivors of both groups came together to celebrate. Hope was on the horizon, and as Taff and Bull relinquished their home-brew on the people around them, every tooth was soon visible as the people laughed and sang, rejoicing in their seemingly brighter future.

Two days later, and Paul declared that the ship was as fit for sea as it ever would be. The ferry and its passengers were ready and eager to weigh anchor and leave the UK mainland, along with its memories of horror and suffering, behind them. The ship’s entire compliment gathered at the bow and watched with growing excitement. It had become a sort of ceremony, as though they were throwing away the last shackles of their previous lives before embarking on a new one. As the huge, rusted anchor broke the surface the assembled people cheered, confident that the hardships were now behind them.

As Paul, Mark, and Steve carried out their final checks, wanting to be sure that everything was working correctly before their intended departure, some of the people on board began to gather on the port side of the ship, gazing out across the Irish Sea and looking upon their homeland one final time. Some seemed sad while others appeared to be glad to see the back of the British Isles. It had become a seething pit of death, completely overrun by the infected and with nowhere left that was safe to hide.

“What if we get to the Azores and there’s people already there?” the veteran asked.

It was a possibility that everyone had considered but as yet remained undiscussed. It seemed as though nobody really wanted to broach the subject until they really had to.

“I don’t know,” Taff shrugged, flicking the butt of his cigarette over the side and into the murky sea. “I suppose we’ll just have to burn that bridge when we cross it.”

“Well, we can’t fight them,” Kyle continued. “We’re down to our last mags, and we don’t have enough pointed sticks to go around.”

“Then we’re screwed, aren’t we?” Bull commented and turned to him with a grin. “We could always surrender? I’d be more than happy to spend the rest of my days sunning it up on the beach with loads of hot chicks.”

“I doubt it’ll be like that, you pleb.”

“You never know, mate. Those islands could be the last bastion of the RAF. You know how they always liked the easy life, and there were always plenty of pretty girls amongst them. Hope is important to us all. Especially now.”

“Yeah, and a pessimist is never disappointed,” Kyle grunted back at him.

Taff saw that Stan was standing at the rail a few metres away from them and staring out towards the mainland as the final preparations were underway. They had not noticed him arrive, and he seemed deep in thought, more reclusive and detached from reality than ever. In fact, he had hardly spoken a word to anyone since the anchor was raised, and Taff was beginning to feel concerned for his commander.

“What you thinking about, boss?” he asked as he sidled up beside Stan, leaning against the superstructure and watching him with interest.

Bull and Kyle also made their way across, positioning themselves on the opposite side from Taff and sandwiching their leader between them. Bull pulled out a small hip-flask and unscrewed the top. Since arriving back at the ship the three of them had been drinking quite a lot, but they would soon push it aside and focus themselves on the journey ahead. In the meantime, however, they were enjoying the last dregs of their toxic stash.

“Stan?”

He turned and waved away Bull’s offer of the nauseating liquid that the big man confidently claimed was the ‘new whisky’. He looked at the three of them for a moment and realised that they were waiting for him to speak. They were clearly curious to what was going through his mind, maybe even a little worried if Stan was reading their expressions correctly. He turned away and focussed his attention back to the mainland.

“Come on, boss. What’s the beef?” Bull demanded before taking another hefty slug from the flask and then passing it over to the veteran.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” he announced in a low and seemingly distracted voice.

“Yeah, we all will be,” Bull quipped while snatching the flask back from Kyle. “Heading for the Azores and the sunshine.”

Taff was the only one who was not smiling. While the veteran and Bull stood grinning like demented children, he knew that Stan was not referring to them all and their voyage south. He was speaking about himself and himself alone. He looked at his commander and suddenly became aware that their long comradeship was drawing to an end.

“Where will you go?”

Stan shrugged and nodded towards the coast. He turned and looked directly at his second in command, and for the first time since he had known the man, Taff saw his eyes soften and even blink.

“You know where I’m going, Taff. It’s time that I went back there and faced up to it. There’s nothing left for me here now. I’m an old man, and you lot don’t need me anymore. It’s time I handed over the reins to you. That should make you happy, you old pirate.”

Bull was slow to catch on, but eventually the penny dropped and he too came to the conclusion that they were about to say their farewells to Stan.

“Why?” he asked, sounding like a child who was being forced away from one of his parents. “Why now?”

“There’s no more fighting to be done,” Stan shrugged. “I think it’s safe to say that it’s all over, and things will be better now. You don’t need me anymore, and I need to hang up my guns before it’s too late and all I have known my entire life is war and death. I’m tired. And I’m sick of it all.”

Taff nodded solemnly. He understood how Stan must have felt. A lifetime of fighting takes its toll, and even the toughest of men who revel in war and yearn for the scent of blood more than the sound of music and laughter eventually grow weary of it all. Stan was not a young man, and he wanted to use what time he had left to do something good. Something that was not born from necessity or the lust for battle.

After a few moments of thoughtful silence Stan pulled away from the railing and turned to look at what remained of his team. Taff, Bull, and Kyle were all that was left from the men he had fought beside since the outbreak began. They had lost so many good people along the way, but he now hoped that there would be no more cause for sacrifice and that they would all have the chance to finally lay down their weapons and truly rest.

“I’ll miss you, Stan,” Bull suddenly confessed with true emotion. His face was taut, but his lower lip trembled visibly. The mighty Bull was truly heart-broken at Stan’s decision.

“You look after yourself, numb-nuts,” Stan said, patting him gently on the shoulder as he turned away and headed towards his quarters.

Within hours the ship was moving. The survivors assembled on the upper decks while Paul manoeuvred the vessel, bringing them onto their desired bearing, and slowly increasing their speed. They watched the trawler pull away from them with Stan at the helm and steering east towards the coast. He had not wished for any fuss and had insisted on slipping away without announcing his intentions to everyone on board. However, the news had travelled fast, and the majority of the survivors quickly gathered to wave off the man who had done so much for them.

“You think that mad old bastard will be okay?” the veteran asked. “You reckon he’ll find what he’s looking for?”

“Yeah,” Taff replied with a confident nod and a smile. He sniffed back and blinked a number of times in an attempt to wash away the emotion that was threatening to overwhelm him. “He’ll be fine. There’s no other way that Stan can be.”

Bull was having a much harder time of it as he attempted to keep a grip on his composure. He looked deflated and could not tear his eyes away from the trawler. He needed to fight the urge to hurl himself over the side and attempt to swim after Stan, begging him to come back to the ship. His sense of loss was so strong that he felt sick to his stomach, and his usually insatiable appetite for food had completely vanished.

“Fuck it. Let’s go get shit faced,” he finally snorted.

As the fishing boat grew smaller, the crowd of survivors began to thin out. They headed back to their rooms or duties with their minds on the future and the endless possibilities of what would become of them. Anything could happen in the coming days and weeks, but all of them believed that things could only get better now.

Al and Tina remained at the rail, still watching the small speck in the distance as the trawler rocked against the light swell, its wake growing fainter as it transported Stan away from them. They did not speak but stood close to one another, remaining lost in their own thoughts and contemplations.

The blasting sound of the ship’s horn startled them, causing them to flinch and reach for their guns as their eardrums rattled. Paul was saying his own goodbye and thank you to Stan, the man who had helped to save him and his family, giving them the chance of a future together. The deafening blur of the horn undoubtedly travelled far and wide and could easily have been heard as far away as the coast.

“Jesus,” Al laughed with relief, raising his head again and looking down at Tina.

She smiled at him as they both moved their hands away from their pistols. They relaxed again, but continued to look back at one another. Tina’s face suddenly seemed less hard and far more beautiful than he had ever noticed before. Gone was the worry and pain from her eyes, and the taut expression seemed to have completely evaporated from her features. She reached out and tucked her arm under his, pulling herself in close and pressing her head against his shoulder while allowing herself to feel protected by him. Al nuzzled his cheek against hers, savouring the smell of her hair and the warmth of her skin.

“It’s all good now, Al,” She said softly. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

EPILOGUE

The cliffs seemed much higher and steeper than he remembered them being, but to be fair it had been many years since he last visited the place. Beneath the sheer rock face the sea crashed against the massive, barnacle encrusted boulders flanking the pier, creating a small harbour that sheltered the jetty from the battering waves. The foaming water, roaring as the swells upturned and shattered against the rocks acted as a stark reminder that any misjudgement in his approach would result in the fishing trawler being smashed to pieces like matchwood with him on board.

Stan eased off the throttle and adjusted his bearing while accounting for the side wind that was attempting to push him further to the right. The bow entered into the narrow, short channel leading up to the jetty as the huge seagulls above squawked and swooped in around him, instinctively believing that there was something to be scavenged from the boat’s haul of fish as it returned to dock. Unfortunately, the birds were left disappointed and flew away, screeching their angry protests.

The engines stopped, and the boat drifted the final few metres on the calm waters of the tiny harbour. With a gentle bump the trawler reached its final destination and docked with the pier. Stan paused and looked around him. The sea behind was empty, and the cliffs stretching far off on either side of him were devoid of any eyes to witness his arrival. Satisfied that he remained undetected, he picked up his weapons and climbed out on to the jetty.

The wooden planks were wet and slimy, thick with moss and algae, and clumps of seaweed that had taken root and grown unchecked over time. Again it was a positive indication to him that the area was disused and abandoned. He checked the chamber of his rifle, making sure that there was a round fed into the breech and ready to be fired. He only had three magazines left, but if all went as he hoped then he would have no need for any of them.

He began to ascend the steep, concrete staircase that led up to the top of the cliffs, using the rusted handrail to assist his climb. The last time he had been there he had shared the steps with burly fishermen, dragging their equipment up and down while uttering curses under their breath or shouting friendly insults to one another, and singing or whistling the songs that only men of their profession knew and truly understood. Now, Stan climbed in silence and alone, unable to help but wonder what had happened to the people who had once used those very same steps on a daily basis.

He reached the top. Without the cliffs to act as a buffer, the wind was much stronger on the high-ground and bitterly cold. The wintery sea air bit through his clothing and clawed at his skin, but he barely noticed it as he moved forward and dropped into cover behind an ancient looking dry stone wall.

A few buildings, neglected and rundown with their roofs collapsing inwards and their windows smashed sat abandoned, slowly becoming covered with weeds and mould. The track running through the small hamlet was overgrown by the long dune grass that flourished on either side, almost completely smothering it to the point that in many places it was impossible to distinguish between the path and the verge. It was clear that there had been no one in the area for a long time.

Moving forward he followed the track towards the south. He had deliberately chosen to dock on the north of the island so that he could check for signs of other inhabitants along the way, and hopefully giving him a better indication of what to expect once he reached his target. He walked alone, buffered by the wind and harassed by an occasional gull. The place seemed desolate with very little in the way of trees. Anything growing higher than just a metre would find it almost impossible to live there. The strong winds blowing in from the sea rarely let up, even during the summer months.

It did not take long before he had travelled across most of the island and was in his intended location from where he would conduct his over-watch. It was more or less the highest point of land on the island and gave him a clear view of the ground in all directions as well as the coastal approaches behind him. Ahead of him and far off in the distance he could see the mainland and the narrow stretch of water that separated the island from the rest of the country. Behind him was nothing but the grey line of the sea and the equally dull and dreary horizon.

He climbed down into a natural dip in the ground and pulled out his binoculars, focussing in on the large house that was approximately a kilometre away and nestled in the low-ground, close to the coastal road that ran around the circumference of the island. The house looked almost exactly as he remembered.

It was a large and sturdy looking building, solidly constructed and able to withstand years of gale winds and storms that relentlessly battered against its walls and windows. The outer walls were less bright now, the white-wash paint fading and becoming more of a pale and dirty grey. The stone wall surrounding the building remained, but through his binoculars Stan could see that the once green and blossoming garden was no longer as well manicured as it had once been.

There were other structures there too. In the past, there had only been the house, sitting alone on the southern tip of the island and a picture of solitude and strength against the sea and the unrelenting wind. Now there were other buildings all around the house. Some were prefabricated cabins and others were merely canvas tents. He could see that there had been a few attempts at erecting some buildings that would be more solid and enduring, but with the lack of resources on the island they were little more than shacks, and clearly needing constant repair and maintenance to prevent them from blowing away.

He panned his binoculars to the left and then to the right. There was no sign of movement, but there were indications of life everywhere he looked. There was steam drifting up from the tents and shacks, washing lines laden with wet clothing that fluttered in the wind, and fresh and well-worn tracks leading between each dwelling and criss-crossing the entire area. There were no people visible, but they were there. Of that much he was certain.

He wondered if they had somehow detected him and were now hiding behind cover, waiting for him to expose himself before they fired. He considered crawling back and approaching from another angle, but then decided that it would make no difference. Whether they had already seen him or not, they would soon be fully aware of his presence when he felt it was time to begin his advance.

Stan looked closer, scrutinising the entire camp and searching for any sign of defences or early warning systems. No matter how well placed and camouflaged they were, there would always be some trace of sentry and fire positions. There were none. He searched again and again, but could see no hint of an outer perimeter. The people living there obviously felt secure and saw no need for such things. There would undoubtedly be weapons, but it was evident that they did not feel the necessity to keep them close and ready at all times.

It was a concept that was completely alien to Stan. Even aboard the ferry and safe in the knowledge that the infected were miles away, separated from them by the sea, he remained armed at all times with his weapons in immaculate order.

“They’re not expecting any dramas, that’s for sure,” Stan whispered to himself.

No matter where he was or how long it had been without incident, he himself would have always ensured that security measures were in place. However, that was
his
mind-set, and he had come to understand that even now, not everyone was capable of thinking in the way that a soldier does. For a moment he wondered whether he would ever be able to shake off a life time of caution and habit.

“Bollocks to it,” he grunted, climbing to his feet and tucking away his equipment. “Time to move.”

There was once a time when Stan could stare at a target for days, even weeks if necessary. He would watch until he had studied the ground and the people to the point that he knew everything about them, taking in every detail of the lay of the land and the habits of men and women occupying it. However, he seemed to be suddenly low on patience, and after only an hour he began to walk down the hill and headed directly towards the large white house.

He did not bother to look for or follow any tracks, choosing instead to take the shortest possible route and move across the open, bumpy ground that threatened to send him falling over with every step. The small undulating ridges and troughs topped with thick tufts of grass were always difficult to negotiate. During his days in the army they had referred to that sort of terrain as ‘babies’ heads’, and carrying heavy loads while trying to remain upright had always proven to be a frustrating and very often, painful challenge. 

As he reached to within a few hundred metres, Stan began to see people emerging from the large house. More of them spilled out through the huge front door and began to gather in the garden in small groups or headed out through the gate and towards the tents and shacks. He heard voices drifting towards him on the wind, snippets of words and the unmistakable sound of laughter. There were men, women, and children there. They sounded happy, relaxed, and confident that this day would be no different from the previous, and that their lives would continue uninterrupted.

At first Stan hesitated, impulsively wanting to drop into cover and raise his rifle. He fought his instincts and remained upright while keeping his rifle at his side and pointed into the dirt at his feet. None of the people had noticed him descending the hill. They were sure of their safety and isolation and seemed to pay very little attention to the world around them. He continued forward with his attention focussed on the nearest of the shacks and shelters as he reached the foot of the hill.

He came to a small wire fence, and once he had stepped over it, he was inside their camp. In front of him was the rear flap of a large canvas tent; the same sort that he had spent many a night under during his years in the army. The sides billowed in the wind and made dull thwacking noises as they pulled against their lashes. He stepped around and over the ropes that pinned the tent to the ground, reaching the front of the shelter and stepping out onto the muddy track that was carpeted with old planks of wood and large stepping stones to help prevent the area from becoming a quagmire. He looked to his left and right, checking that no one was approaching from his flanks before stepping forward and into the main street of the medieval style village.

Chickens ran between the dwellings, chasing one another through the mud while cats and dogs that looked well fed and bored lay snoozing in the open air. The animals paid him virtually no attention as he continued along the squelching path. One of the dogs raised its head for a moment and let out a high-pitched whine that was almost inaudible to the human ear. Stan looked back at it, expecting it to leap towards him or at least bark a warning. Instead, it lay its head back down upon the blanket that it was sprawled out upon, disinterested and unthreatened by the new arrival.

It was something that made Stan feel almost uneasy. The dogs that they came into contact with on the mainland were never so casual. They travelled and hunted in packs, and seeing a living human being would be an opportunity that they rarely passed up on. Food was scarce, and humans were a much easier target than most other animals. If a person was unarmed and cornered by a hungry pack, they would stand very little chance at survival. To now see a dog pay him virtually no interest was confusing to say the least.

He continued to walk, and by now he was in the centre of the camp. There were people ahead of him slowly making their way towards their own homes after exiting the house. Some of them noticed him and stopped. They stood and stared, but no one challenged him. They eyed his weapons and looked to one another questioningly, but not a single soul stepped forward.

Stan remained focussed upon the house as he walked, but remained fully aware of what was happening around him. The people ahead of him stepped out of his path and gave him a wide birth before closing in on his flanks and rear. They were clearly worried but curious to who he was and where he had suddenly appeared from. He could hear them whispering but still, no one attempted to stop him or even raise an alarm. Stan watched them, but saw that there was no one amongst them that posed any sort of threat. It was even clear that there was no one willing to ask him who he was or where he was going.

He reached the gate of the house and paused before opening it. He glanced back over his shoulder at the people who were standing around him and staring back with anxious and probing expressions. He looked at the children that were huddled close to their parents and wanting to ask the obvious questions about the scary looking man who had appeared on the island. He was tempted to say something, but had no idea what. He also knew that anything he said at that moment would sound frightening in his harsh voice and would only be backed up and cemented by his cold, unflinching stare.

He turned to continue through the gate but stopped. She was there, standing at the door to the house, and looking back at him. Their eyes locked onto one another, and for what seemed a long time they stood watching each other in complete silence while the people around them held their breath and waited.

She had hardly changed. Her thick, wavy blonde hair remained cut in the same style, billowing out from her head just as it had done all those years ago, and once again reminding him of Farrah Fawcett. Her soft face glowed in the same way he remembered, and her eyes still held the same penetrating, but warming glare that had always remained perfectly vivid in his memories of her. It had been many years, but time had been kind to her. He could see that clearly. Her white and red patterned dress fluttered at the bottom as the wind snatched at it, but remained pinched at the waist and flattered her natural shape. She took a hesitant step forward from the doorway, studying him as he remained standing at the gate and looking back at her.