War of the Dead

  War of the Dead

  Killing the Dead: Season Three Book One

  By Richard Murray

  Copyright 2018 Richard Murray

  All Rights Reserved

  All Characters are a work of Fiction.

  Any resemblance to real persons

  Living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Some scenes are based on real locations that

  have been altered for the purposes of the story.

  Chapter 1

  More than a year had passed since the world went to hell. Since the dead had started to walk and feast on the living. More than a year since the collapse of what we humans had laughingly called civilisation.

  In that time, we had adapted, we had survived and we had fought to maintain our place in the hierarchy of the new world. We may no longer have been the top of the food chain but we refused to give way without a fight.

  We had gathered in small groups, slowly becoming bigger as the weak were killed off. We had gathered in isolated places, building walls around ourselves in the hope that we would be finally safe once more. But there was nowhere safe.

  For everything we did was nothing against the sheer number of undead out there and they had begun to change too. The slow, stupid Shambler had given way to the Feral. A zombie that was fast, had animal cunning and an ability to maintain some kind of pack control over their slower brethren.

  As we had found our feet and begun to hold our own, we had found that the Feral was merely a stepping stone to the final incarnation. The Reaper. It was living – or perhaps undead – proof of evolution in action.

  Fast, inhumanely strong and almost as smart as they had been in life. They had developed thick bone around their skulls, growing through the skin to form ridges that protected them from those killing blows that were so successful against the other zombies.

  More than that though, they had the ability to gather the other undead around them. To form armies of Shamblers, with Ferals for lieutenants. A lone Reaper could command hundreds of the undead and they were rising all across the world. Wherever the zombies were, we had begun to find Reapers, the undead kings and queens.

  At night, I wept for the living. Those of us who were fighting to remain in the world, to remain part of the world. For even as some of us fought to save those unable to fight, other humans were preying on them.

  A hand pressed gently against my back, breaking me from my reverie and I looked up into the pale blue eyes of the man I loved. While the rest of the world had panicked, he had picked up a knife and struck back, fighting the living and the undead alike.

  “We’ve docked,” he said and I nodded tersely.

  My stomach churned and my mouth was dry. What would come next would be decidedly unpleasant, there was no doubt about that. I licked dry lips and rose to my feet. I pulled on my jacket and adjusted it so that the badge showing my rank of lieutenant was visible.

  The short walk through the bowels of the ship didn’t leave me much time to think, to plan, to get my story straight. Not that I should have needed that time, I’d had weeks to come up with a valid reason. I just hadn’t quite figured one out that would be acceptable.

  A blast of frigid air hit me as I pushed open the door and stepped out onto the deck. The salt tang of the sea could be tasted on the air and I sucked in a deep breath, marvelling at how clean it smelt compared to the city that had been blanketed in the overpowering stench of a million or more undead.

  “You ready?” Gregg asked, his face drawn and pensive.

  I nodded brusquely and swept my gaze over the full deck. Hundreds of black-clad people stared back at me, their faces covered by the black cloth shrouds they wore in public. No, I realised after a moment, not at me, at him.

  He came onto the deck behind me and a noticeable ripple went through the crowd. A wordless sound that seemed to come from all of them at once. Hundreds of gloved fists swept up to their chests in silent salute, which he ignored, a slight smile playing on his lips as he nodded a greeting to Gregg.

  “I assume there is a welcoming party,” Ryan said, his voice calm yet firm.

  “Would have been surprised if there wasn’t, mate.”

  “Perhaps I should go alone,” I said to him for maybe the tenth time that morning and like every other time he just shook his head.

  “No.”

  I held back the sigh I so very much wanted to release and headed towards the gangplank that had been lowered to the docks below. The crowd parted before me, black-clad forms moving aside without once taking their eyes off their beloved leader.

  Their hands gripped the hilts of the knives they wore on their belts and there was an eagerness about them that spoke of imminent violence. Each and every one of them would storm the docks singlehandedly if they had to at the first sign of danger to him.

  It scared me sometimes just how devoted they were. Where I saw the man he was and the serial killer he had been, they saw a messiah. The living embodiment of death come to rid the world of the undead scourge. They would, and had, fight and die for him.

  A tall, slim man dressed all in black stood beside the gangplank. Unlike the others, he didn’t wear a hood. His thick black hair stuck out from his head in all directions, stubbornly resisting the comb he ran through it each morning. It was the same with the thick beard of bushy black hair that covered the lower part of his face.

  He always reminded me of a Wildman fresh out of the forest. Unshaven and a little crazed. As he looked at Ryan though, there was nothing but devotion in his gaze.

  “Are you certain you won’t take a fist, my Lord Death?”

  I didn’t have to look at Ryan to know he was still not comfortable with the term they used to address him. He accepted it as something he couldn’t change without more effort than he cared to put into it, but he didn’t entirely like it.

  “Yes. There will be just me. Until we have permission to leave the ship, all the Dead shall remain aboard.”

  “As you command,” Samuel said with a deep bow.

  I did sigh then. He was putting on a show for the crowd gathered below and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d arranged to have someone announce us as we descended the gangplank. He was, if nothing else, deeply devoted to the cult of the dead that Ryan had built around himself.

  “So, this is Stornoway,” Ryan said as he stopped at the top of the gangplank to stare out over the town.

  It was the new seat of government and one of the larger settlements on the Isle of Lewis where we had made our home. Twenty-five thousand people crammed onto an island that had held barely eighteen thousand before the fall of the world.

  People made do, of course, they were by and large grateful for anything because of the safety offered by the naval forces that had secured the island. So they moved in, took over houses and shared buildings when needed.

  I’d been surprised at just how accommodating people had been back when we’d moved them all across. That hadn’t lasted of course. As soon as they felt they were safe, they reverted back to being the same as any group of people the world over. Pain’s in the ass.

  Factions formed, complaints were made and new religious leaders rose up from the various groups of people who banded together with others of the same religion. The new government was besieged by demands as they sought to get the island in working order and beneath all that was the need for food.

  Fishing boats were out constantly and the warehouses full of food that Ryan had given to us several months before had helped immensely but going forward, we needed farmland and there just wasn’t enough available on the island to do much to put a dent in our needs.

  As a result, the government had told the navy to stay close. To not go out and risk the few resources they had unless abso
lutely necessary, which is one of the reasons why I had finally chosen to take it upon myself to bring Ryan and his people to the island. An act that could have me court-martialled at best.

  “May as well get it over with,” I said and headed down to the docks.

  A dozen armed marines met me there, assault rifles held at the ready. A couple of them nodded politely to me and I recognised them from the fight back in Glasgow when we’d retaken the shipyards. There was respect in those nods and I was grateful for that.

  “Lieutenant,” Captain Jennings said, his voice firm and his gaze fixed to my face.

  He didn’t look at Ryan and I knew that if I did, I would see that same smile on his lips. The last time the two of them had met it had been unpleasant for the captain.

  I saluted briskly and he returned it. I lowered my hand and couldn’t avoid looking down at his left hand. The glove he wore hid it, but I knew there was a missing finger there. One that he’d removed himself at Ryan’s command as punishment.

  “Sir,” I said. “I have…”

  “Not now.” He gestured impatiently and turned away. “The Admiral’s waiting.”

  He led us along the docks, the marines falling in around us, their assault rifles held across their chests with the barrels pointed down. They were ready to raise them in an instant should they need to and as we left the dock, I saw why.

  People lined the street through the town. All manner of people, young and old, men and women. All craning their necks to see, all wearing mixed expressions of fear, disgust and on some, hope. I was pretty sure they hadn’t come to see me arrive.

  The hubbub of voices fell as he walked by, rising once again as we passed. My stomach churned as I realised what that meant. No matter what we told the people we saved, no matter how much we cautioned them, they spoke of Ryan and his followers. His legend was growing and that would be a problem.

  For all that he was the centre of their attention, Ryan did an admirable job of ignoring them. Of course, that wasn’t hard for him. He ignored everybody until he absolutely had to. There was a tightness at the corners of his eyes though and his hand hovered close to the long knife sheathed on his right hip.

  That didn’t mean much since that was pretty much how he always acted, but I couldn’t deny the itch in the centre of my back nor the way the hairs on the back of my neck rose up. If anyone wanted to put an end to him, then that would have been a good time to do it.

  We moved through the town with the crowd watching us. Past the businesses and the houses and towards the town hall. I swallowed past the hard lump in my throat and silently hoped for a better outcome than I expected.

  My orders had been explicit. The Dead were to remain in Glasgow. They were not to set foot on the island nor mingle with the survivors. There was too much at stake to allow a new religion to take root and despite his protestations, Ryan had created a cult following that was rapidly becoming a full-blown religion.

  I shivered and it wasn’t due to the chill wind or the light spattering of rain on my skin. A court-martial would be almost welcome to me, considering the other options I saw playing out in my head. It wouldn’t be fun.

  Made of red brick, the building was two storeys high and at least a century old. It had decorative stonework above the upper floor windows and a clock tower rose up above the grey slate tiles of the roof. Soldiers patrolled the perimeter and stood guard before the red painted doors. Wooden boards had been nailed across the windows and I glanced at Ryan, but he made no indication that he noticed.

  Of course, he would have. Much like he would have counted the number of men and women on guard and noted their patrol routes as we walked up. He would have assessed the potential threat and likely already come up with a variety of interesting ways to kill them all.

  I reached out, slipping my hand into his. I didn’t intend it to be more than a quick squeeze, a confirmation that he was there with me. A support that I very much needed. I knew how much he disliked being touched, especially in public. Which was why I gave a little gasp as his fingers closed around mine and he held my hand tight.

  He didn’t look at me of course, or give any indication that he was doing anything remotely supportive, but still, my lips curled into a smile and my stomach ceased its incessant churning. Little things like that were one of the reasons I loved him. They showed a side of him that no one but I ever saw.

  Captain Jennings spoke to the soldiers and the moved aside, one of them pushing open the door to allow us in. They gave us hard stares as we passed them by, more than one of them glancing dismissively at the CDF badge on my fatigues. It didn’t escape my attention that all of those on guard were regular navy and not the Civilian Defence Forces.

  He led us through a maze of corridors and let us into a room that was without windows at all. Heavy tables of polished teak had been set in a horseshoe shape with seats for nine people. They were all occupied and I swallowed hard as I realised it was the new government.

  There were few friendly faces there, though Admiral Stuart, seated at the furthest end of the table, nodded a greeting. Cass too smiled warmly and I ached to go to her and embrace her. She was one of my best friends and a survivor who had gone through hell and back with me.

  “So…”

  I looked over at the man at the centre of the ‘U’ as he spoke and released my hold of Ryan’s hand to snap a smart salute. He grunted and gestured dismissively for me to stand at ease. He cleared his throat, pressing one fist to his lips that trembled slightly and pushed his thin-rimmed glasses back up his nose as he looked directly at me.

  “So,” he began again. “Tell us why you shouldn’t be thrown into a cell.”

  Chapter 2

  The speaker was one of the few overweight people I had seen in a long time and that told me everything I needed to know about him. In a time where people were subsisting on rations, the fat man wasn’t an honest one.

  To his left was a slim woman with her grey hair in a rather severe bun that matched the look she sent my way. I took a moment to grin at her and watched her face pale a little before moving on to the next in line.

  Short with hunched shoulders and drooping jowls. Now, he was a man who had clearly once had a lot more weight than he currently did. I glanced back to the speaker to compare and nodded slowly to myself. More honest than the first then.

  Cass was next and the warmth of her smile soured my mood further than it should have. I’d not been looking forward to seeing her again. Not that I knew why. Lily would know but she seemed to be a little busy.

  Her Admiral nodded politely as his eyes met mine. There was a grudging respect there and while I was sure he would never want to be friends, he seemed to respect me and that suited me well enough.

  “Well?” the speaker demanded and my fingers twitched toward the hilt of my knife.

  “Forgive me, Councillor, I am unsure...”

  “You brought them here!” he snapped, banging his fist on the hardwood table. “Against all orders to the contrary.”

  “Perhaps the Admiral would like to offer insight into why one of his officers disobeyed a direct order.”

  That was said by a weasel-faced woman to the right of the first speaker. Her dark hair was streaked with grey and greasy as though she couldn’t be bothered to wash it. There was a gleam in her eyes as she stared at the admiral that suggested she had scored a point.

  I fought the urge to yawn as I realised it was some politics at play. No matter how far humans fell, how close they came to extinction, still they would argue and bicker amongst one another. It bored me immensely.

  “Lieutenant,” Admiral Stuart said in that quiet, yet authoritative tone of his. “Please feel free to explain to the councillor why I ordered your return.”

  She recovered quickly but if I noticed her surprise at that, the others would have too. I glanced once more at the admiral. He had thrown her a lifeline and set himself before the new government's ire. A good man indeed.

  “Sir,” she snapped
another salute, this one for him alone. “The city of Glasgow has fallen. There are no survivors making it into or through the city and no way to scavenge any further supplies from the businesses and homes.”

  “Were you in danger?” Weasel face asked.

  “No, ma’am, our building was secure.”

  “Then you could have stayed there, could you not?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why then, Admiral, did you ‘order’ her return?”

  “Lieutenant?” he said by way of reply. “Perhaps you would like to elaborate further.”

  He’d thrown her a lifeline but wasn’t quite willing to fall entirely on his sword. A good man and a smart one. I considered that I may have to revise my opinion of the man.

  “The Reapers, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  He leant forward in his chair, placing his arms on the table as his interest grew. Cass, too, turned from studying the faces of the other councillors to give her full attention.

  “They are…”

  She seemed lost for a way to explain it and I smiled grimly. That was understandable.

  “They are at war,” I said and all attention turned to me.

  “We know that!” Weasel Face said. “We’ve been fighting them too.”

  “Not with us; with each other.”

  Silence fell as Lily said that and the admiral leant back in his chair, scratching idly at his chin, eyes distant as he became lost in thought. The implications of what she had just said were clear to him, though perhaps not to the others councillors.

  “What exactly do you mean?” the first speaker asked.

  Lily sucked in a deep breath. Her eyes flicked to me for a second and then away as she prepared to explain.

  “We know that Reapers gather other undead around them. The Ferals keep the Shamblers in line and they, in turn, are used to flush out human prey or when needed, as food for the others.”

  “Yes, we are aware of that,” the first speaker snapped. “Get on with it.”

  “We have watched them for some time. The Reaper moves into an area, sets up a nest of sorts and sends the others out in search of prey. It wasn’t long before we realised they established a territory and if any other undead came into it, they were killed and usually devoured.”