The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3) (13 page)

Bobby turned and made his way back through the low wire entanglements and towards the trench where Richard was waiting. He looked down and saw that the stove was still cold and unlit. He turned to Richard with anger beginning to bubble inside of him and a questioning expression suddenly covering his reddening face. The skinny little man with wiry grey hair stared back up at him, puffing away on a freshly lit cigarette and a devilish smile spreading across his leathery features.

“Sorry mate,” he said with mock regret. “It’s just too bloody windy.”

“Wanker,” Bobby retorted.

He was more annoyed with himself for having fallen for the ploy than he was with Richard and his failure to get the stove burning. He turned and stormed off towards the house, leaving Richard alone and still sitting on the edge of the trench.

“Where you going?” Richard called after him and then nervously glanced around at his surroundings.

“Making a fucking brew and waking up that lazy Welsh bastard,” he shouted back over his shoulder. It was time for Taff to take over on the sentry position, so Bobby intended on killing two birds with one stone.

“I’m beginning to think it’s time for us to bug-out, Stan,” Taff grumbled as he sat rubbing at his head after waking up on the couch. He snorted and spat on the floor, rubbing the phlegm into the dust covered ground with the heel of his boot. “It’s pointless staying here, and sooner or later, it’ll all go tits up.”

He placed a cigarette between his lips and then picked up his M-4, removed the magazine, and pulled back the working parts, checking that the chamber was clear. Next, he pulled out a carbon stained toothbrush and an oily rag from one of the pouches of his assault vest. He had been awake for less than a minute, but already he was ensuring that his weapons were in perfect working order and ready to fire.

First my weapon, then myself
.

Since their return from London, all of them had developed a habit of sleeping fully dressed and equipped, with their weapons attached to their bodies or in their hands. The only time they removed their kit was on the rare occasion they decided to wash. All of them had grown thick beards over the weeks, and their skin and clothing had become engrained with dirt, making them look as though they were moulded from clay. It was hard to tell where flesh ended and cloth began. However, while their smell and appearance left much to be desired, their weapons and equipment remained spotless.

“Somewhere quiet would be nice, without dead people or jumped up, small minded wankers that all want to be the boss of some shitty island,” Taff continued as he wiped his oily cloth over his weapons and puffed away on the cigarette.

Stan nodded but said nothing. He, too, was thinking the same thing and had been for quite some time. From their position on the southernmost tip of the island, they had been spared the onslaught that had been going on between the army and militia. The team had watched in disgust as the survivors living on the island turned on one another and tore each other apart. It was pointless for them to get involved. The six of them, including the veteran, could do very little to help the situation, so they opted to remain neutral. However, that did not prevent them from having to get involved in a number of localised skirmishes as militia troops stumbled upon their positions. The team’s heavy and relentless fire soon deterred any further incursions upon their territory, and the probing attacks into the south abruptly ceased.

“I reckon Taff’s right,” Bobby concurred as he walked into the room, taking a long gulp from the steaming cup in his hand. “We should look at getting the fuck off this island and making our own way. Bollocks to that lot down there. Let them get on with playing politics and war. There’s nothing here for us, so why are we still hanging about?”

Again, Stan did not reply. He remained silent, staring at the cold fireplace that was filled with the charred wood from the previous night.

“What do you reckon, Bull?” Bobby asked, hoping to get his vote, seeing as their leader did not seem to be particularly forthcoming with his opinion.

Bull was sitting at the table, leafing through a faded gossip magazine. He barely noticed what was displayed on the pages. The writing did not register in his brain, and the catchy headlines went unnoticed as he flicked from page to page. It was all just a blur to him, brought on by disinterest and boredom. He looked across at Bobby, his piercing eyes glowing from behind his filth coated face. He gave a slight shrug and blew out a sigh. It was his way of telling them that he could not care less.

“For God’s sake, is there no life left in this place?” Emily gasped from the corner where she sat with William, helping him to read through a copy of Moby Dick. Even now, in the absence of school and a working society, she insisted that her son continue to learn the basics, such as reading and writing.

The team as a whole had become stagnant. Their energy had been sapped by the events in London, and in the weeks since, it showed no sign of returning. Their morale was at an all-time low, and the friendly insults and laughter had long since disappeared from the house. It had been replaced with an oppressive silence. All conversations were direct, brief and to the point, and conducted in hushed and monotone voices.

The death of Marty had hit Bull the hardest. They had been best friends for most of their adult lives, and losing him had torn something out of Bull’s character. He was serious now and far from being the life and soul of the group as he had always been. His features, appearing ferocious from the wounds he had sustained during the attack on the capital, seemed to be perpetually twisted with rage. His eyes burned with fury, and only when his lust for revenge was satisfied, would there be hope of the old Bull returning.

Two days after the call for retreat, the team arrived back at the island on Captain Werner’s U-boat. By then, the civil war had already erupted. Heading directly for Newport, Bull brimmed with the need for retribution against the men and women who had ordered such a fool-hardy operation. Some of the people he considered as being responsible for the death of his friend had already been murdered by the militia commanders, and the rest had simply vanished. General Thompson remained, but the team knew full well that the failure and overall strategy had not been his doing. It was the politicians and the general staff in the Ministry of Defence who were to blame. Bull returned to the barn later that evening with his hunger for blood unsated. Since then he had brooded, waiting for the chance to inflict pain and suffering upon anyone he considered to be a threat to him or the remains of his team.

“I agree,” said a voice from the doorway to the kitchen. “I reckon we should look at getting out of here and going on alone.”

Bobby turned and saw the veteran standing there, staring back at him and nodding his head. On returning to the island, the man that they had come to know as Kyle had opted to remain with the team. His entire unit had been wiped out during the battle of London and in the chaos, he, too, had been listed as missing and presumed dead. The tough and experienced veteran held no desire to join one of the many scratch units that had been formed from the remnants of the other decimated battalions. He could see that things were steadily falling apart, and with no objections coming from the survivors of the team, he became part of their group. Now, after weeks of watching and listening, he, too, could see that the mainland was lost, and staying on the island, as far as he was concerned, was akin to a slow death sentence.

“At least out there we can make our own choices and take control of our own survival.” He shrugged and turned his gaze towards the team commander. “This place will eventually burn. You know that, Stan, and if it’s not those power-hungry bastards down there tearing each other’s throats out, it’ll eventually be those walking piles of pus. I’m up for doing a runner. Get out while we still can. ”

Stan continued to stare into the cold fireplace. His thoughts were drifting constantly, and the conversations within the room were nothing more than a distant echo. His team was slowly shrinking around him, in body
and
spirit, and he, too, was beginning to slip into the dark hole that was slowly opening up beneath them. He began to remember things that he had not thought about in many years. There had been events in his life that he had chosen to forget about and put behind him for fear of them interfering with his ability to function as a soldier. He had sacrificed everything that normal men strived for, and instead, devoted his entire being to his profession. Now, as he stared into the cold embers of the fireplace, he began to question himself and wonder whether or not he had wasted his life and if the choices he had made had been the right ones. Many times he had reached a junction in his life where he needed to choose which path to take. His selections were always immediate, never stopping to consider the route he was travelling, or having even the slightest thought of turning back. He had lived as a professional soldier for as long as he could remember, but now after years of fighting he began to doubt himself and the path he had taken.

“I have a son,” he finally announced in a low and thoughtful voice, his eyes continuing to gaze at the dark and cold fireplace.

In the silence of the room, his words seemed to boom and linger. The statement came as an instant shock to all those around him, snatching and taking hold of every ounce of their attention. Heads whipped around, turning in Stan’s direction. Words were left unfinished, having been cut off by the unexpected revelation from the man that they had known for many years but barely knew.

Even Bull looked up from the table with an expression of curiosity as Stan’s sudden and astonishing statement ploughed through the barrier of boredom and melancholy that enveloped his brain. He lowered the faded magazine and glanced across at Taff and Bobby, raising a questioning eyebrow. Both men stared back at him, sharing the same perplexed look. They were just as surprised as he was. Bull placed the magazine down on the table top and leaned forward in anticipation of hearing more from the man that they all knew virtually nothing about despite having been through so much together.

Stan paused and looked around at the expectant faces that stared back at him. He shrugged and let out a long sigh as he sat back, pushing his body into the soft cushions of the couch. He remained silent for a moment and then finally reached a grubby hand up to his face and rubbed his palm against the thick beard that had grown over his cheeks and chin.

“About eight years ago, as I was approaching my final two year point in the army, I began wondering about what I would do once my time as a soldier was up. There was no way they were going to give me a commission. I’d already managed to stay on five years beyond my twenty-two year point, and I knew they wouldn’t keep me any longer. You know how it is; they get rid of you once they think you serve no further use.”

All of them knew what Stan was referring to. He was speaking about the retirement that is forced upon most British soldiers once they reach their full term of service of twenty-two years. Depending on their rank and qualifications at the time, they are either retired with a full pension, or commissioned as an officer. The majority are sent out into a world which they know very little about. They are given a pat on the back and wished the best of luck at the age of just forty. Only a tiny handful are kept on and promoted directly to Captain, normally holding positions within the supply chain or training wing.

Stan shook his head in disgust. He had seen many a man reach his full term of service and then be cast out into the world without the slightest idea of how to live in normal society. Most former soldiers survive and are able to adapt eventually, but some can never really adjust to the change from military to civilian life. He had known quite a few former comrades that committed suicide after being tossed away like garbage by the army. Others had ended up in prison or on the streets. It was that which Stan had feared the most. The not knowing how to live without the army or trying to function within a society that did not see the world in the same way that he did.

“Could you imagine me as a Rupert? I wouldn’t have lasted a week,” Stan grunted, and jerked his shoulders at the thought of being made an officer. “And could you see me as a postman or working in a supermarket? To be honest, I was in a flap. The army had been all I’d ever known, and suddenly I was about to be thrown out into the world and told to get on with it. I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do.”

The others glanced about, their faces betraying nothing but their inner selves feeling astounded by the sudden openness in the way that the enigmatic Stan was now speaking. He had never spoken so candidly to any of them about his feelings or private life. Even Taff, who was probably closer to him than anyone, was shocked at Stan’s change in personality.

“So, I took a break,” Stan continued. “I went AWOL for six months in an attempt to
rediscover
myself. I travelled about, and it was the only time I had seen the world without looking down the sight of a gun. Then, I met Julia. It was the one place that I didn’t expect to meet
anyone
. I’d gone there to be alone and to think, to be away from everyone, and decide on what to do next, but there she was.” He raised both hands out in front of him as though he could see her standing there. “I wasn’t looking for her, and I don’t think she was looking for me. It just happened and we enjoyed each other for a few months.”

He paused for a few seconds and then looked down at the floor, his voice becoming hushed and filled with shame.