Old World (The Green and Pleasant Land) Read online

  Its head shook from side to side and it screeched a piercing scream that sounded like a long undulating 'nooooooo' sound. As the cadaver was about to descend on me a lead pipe from behind smashed right through its head covering me with splatter. As the beast fell to the side I saw Lars Eriksson smile grimly at me. He gave me a thumbs up and looked about to speak when a pair of hands encircled his head. Long fingers with sharp nails penetrated his temples and sank deep into his skull behind the eyes.

  Lars screamed in pain and fell to his knees at which point the cadaver bit hungrily into the top of his head pulling off chunks of skin and hair in its determination to reach the brain of my friend and saviour.

  To this day I spare him a thought every now and then. But on that day there was no time for sorrow, I got up and I carried on running. The gangplank I'd been aiming for had been knocked into the churning water beside the carrier, I saw a few resourceful fellows shimmying up the long anchor chains and decided to join them.

  As I pulled myself up the chain I became aware of the vibrations emanating along it. The eight newly installed diesel turbines had been fired up and were only moments away from being engaged to propel the carrier and those clambering onto to it to safety. I finally pulled myself up the last couple of feet and grabbed the deck rolling over onto it with a brief sense of satisfaction.

  I stood and looked out over the naval yard. I was witnessing first hand the end of the world as we knew it. Thousands of cadavers now swarmed across the buildings and along the pier. When their prey reached the edge of the dock many chose to simply throw themselves in to the water and take their chances in the deep.

  Grenades were hurled and sent up red plumes like flares here and there. A few lone soldiers stood firing coolly into the crowd until their ammunition was spent and they became one with the enemy.

  Around eight helicopters had landed on the deck of the carrier. Heavy weapons had been deployed around the edge of the vessel and were busy carving a path of destruction through the ranks of the cadavers which was soon filled with more of the same. Eventually the lone figure who stood at the prow of the ship gave his consent, a command was radioed through to the bridge. The engines bellowed and the chains and guide cables protested as the ship wrenched itself from its holdings and plunged out into the waters of the north sea.

  I watched in mute horror as we sailed from the shipyard. There were still thousands of people left, many of them lined the edges of the dock and cried as they watched salvation ploughing through the waves away from them. Men, women and children huddled in smaller and smaller numbers as the army of the dead recruited them into its ranks against their will. Smaller and smaller they got, the shuffling, shambling figures who inhabited the Rosyth shipyard. As we bobbed up and down in the open water, I felt a sickness to my core that was little to do with the sea...

  And now I am here. Wondering the metal halls of our floating home. I have stepped off the edge of the earth and this is where I landed, this is certainly not my world, and though they look like my people they are alien in their notions and their intent. I am not sure what is worse. Those early days when we were filled with the dread of not knowing, or these modern times, when we are accustomed to our fate, to the long slow decline we suffer until the sea claims us.

  As I make my way up to the command centre I exchange nods with similarly dead eyed fellow prisoners. In the early days, amidst the chaos and the smoke we could conjure illusions of what might be. But the now is advanced in its ages, and has shown us the truth of our demise.

  My role in construction of the carrier was concerned with the engineering of the ships advanced weapons and communication systems. As such I had been designated some sort of impromptu 'chief technical officer'. It is for that reason that I am allowed on the command deck and am invited to take part in the weekly meetings of the ships senior officers.

  I do not say much, it seems to me that the talking is done by those who still have hope. Less and less is said each week, there will come a time I think when we will all just sit around in silence waiting to sink.

  At the start of the crisis this room was a neat orderly command centre. Manned around the clock by an advanced team of communications officers who would bring in up to the minute information on the state of play in the United Kingdom and the wider world. Captain Skellen, the ranking officer on board would coordinate with his team, lending what limited assistance he could to regular forces on the ground battling against the outbreak.

  As time went by there was less and less to communicate, fewer battles, not because we were winning, but because the military had been decimated by the conflict and was waging the war with ever dwindling manpower. Then came the big one, the Battle of London. The militaries last ditch attempt to regain control of the capital. For five days we listened to the screams of the dying over the radio. Then it all went quiet, we heard nothing more from the land, satellite communications went offline, we were alone.

  Now the command room is a mess. It reeks of stale swear, cigars and liqueur. The shiny console screens are dark, the room is filled with the essence of defeat and despair. As I take my seat in the shadows I look around at the dishevelled officer core who sit and mumble to each other and to themselves.

  Just in front of the captains chair I see an open file the contents of which immediately pique my interest. The report inside is entitled 'Provisional theory's on the nature of the Morphid threat'. Morphids, a name which was whispered more and more these days. It had become evident as the conflict waged that we fought not only the dead but other equally foul foes.

  Wild ideas circulated about their origins, about the confluence of the deathwalker virus mixed with high levels of radiation. Whatever their source the presence of the Morphids was undeniable, malformed creatures, some which seemed to be hybrid of man and beast, some which seemed to have no discernible earthly origin. Their numbers had grown considerably, to the extent that the foraging missions we launched were entirely prohibited from entering the southern counties due to the extent of the infestation.

  I glanced down the document, noting a few designations for the various types of Morphids; the many armed Genglers, Devils Dogs and Vulturion. But my prying ceased when Captain Skellen entered the command centre, closing the file as he sat down. There was an air of excitement about the man, a feverish enthusiasm which had been absent for many months.

  The Captain briefed us on a new mission. A three copter squad would fly further west than we'd gone before, the objective, the Brampton Barracks. At the name my attention focused, my heart began to race. The barracks was only about thirty miles outside Carlisle, thirty miles from home, from them. As the Captain rambled on about the potential benefits to be gained from the stores at Brampton I spoke.

  “What about Carlisle?” I said interrupting. The captain was a hard eyed man, a thirty year veteran of iron discipline, he alone amongst the officer core seemed to have found the will to maintain a clean shaven look throughout the apocalypse.

  “What about it?” he barked. I licked my lips and pondered my next words carefully.

  “Pendragon systems global headquarters at Edenpark is just outside the city” said I.

  “Not too far from your home either I believe?” interjected Lieutenant Tasker with a slight sneer.

  “Looking to go home Redmayne?” said Captain Skellen quizzically.

  “No. The coincidence is just that.”

  “Explain”

  So I told them. I told them about the underground bunker at Edenpark. I told them about the command and control centre it housed which might, just might still have an operational satellite link which could give us an idea of what was happening in the wider world and allow us to link up with the remnants of the Royal Navy in other parts of the globe.

  They lapped it up, the thought of not being alone any more was enough to push them over into endorsing my plan. I neglected to tell them that the chances of the building having power, let alone being able to establish a satellite link w
ere slim to nil. Let them have their hope, and I will have mine. The Redmayne house was less than an hour from Edenpark, I would see what became of my dearest after that telephone call, and my fellow lost sailors would be none the wiser.

  The meeting started to wind down. Food was short, water was short, morale was low. There had been two more rapes which had led to two more summary executions, two more bodies to feed to the water. The fine details of the Brampton mission were hammered out and most of us made to leave. I heard one of Captain Skellens aides mention a tertiary objective.

  “A third mission?” queried Lieutenant Tasker.

  “Yes” nodded the Captain. “We have intercepted an unidentified radio signal, as we're heading to Carlisle we may as well expand the mission to investigate that as well”

  “Where is it coming from?” I ask. The Captain looks at his notes.

  “A remote location, in the Lake District National Park, a place called Ravensburg”.