Diaries of the Damned (37 page)

Paul took his, but decided against the overwhelming urge to knock the fiery liquid back in one shot again. He had hardly eaten in days, and already felt his head beginning to spin. Yuri however, showed no such restraint. His glass was empty a few seconds after he sat down. A silence fell, and Paul looked around the room. It was just as impressive at the second viewing as it was when he walked through the door.

Paul spoke after a period of silence that he felt was acceptable.  “I guess that stops Britain’s master plan.”

“How you mean?” Yuri cocked his head to one side.

“Well, your soldier, Andre.”

“Andrei.
”

“Sorry, Andrei. He was not bitten, so that means the virus they created has changed. It affects everybody. Their plan cannot work, because they have infected the whole world. Or will have before long.” Paul sat back; a mixture of emotions running through him at the thought.

“Then we are all damned.” Yuri stared at Paul with cold eyes. Eyes that were filled with a raging torrent of anger and fear that would culminate in a total shutdown of the human condition.

“No, Yuri that is where
you are wrong. We are survivors,” Paul emphasized the fact. He refused to look at himself, or any of them, as being victims. They were alive. They could still make their own decisions.

“My friend, you have a positive outlook on things, but I do not see how this will help us. We are stuck here.” Yuri had lost all tones of superiority, and the use of the word friend made Paul relax even further.

“Well, we can clear the camp, lock it down, plant seeds maybe, wildlife, animals, there must be some we could hunt in the woods. You must have food on site, too. Canned goods, right? This was a military base.” Paul felt his stomach rumble.

“You can talk well…”

“Paul.”

“Paul. But you have not yet convinced me. However, I do not think you will stop just yet. Am I right?” Yuri gave a laugh, jumped from the sofa and slapped Paul on the back hard enough for him to lunge forward and almost fall from the sofa. “Come, we go eat. You were right on that. We have many supplies. So for tonight, we will feast.” Yuri lead the way out of the library, and back into the cold and concrete general populace area.

They could hear the relaxing sound of forming friendships long before they reached the mess hall. The bare walls of the compound’s headquarters echoed and, for a moment, the sounds of life overpowered the bass-line drone of the undead. As they walked past a window that offered a broader view of the compound than the others, Paul allowed himself a moment to pause and look out. The zombies had lost interest in his group. Out of sight, out of mind, was the truest of all statements when referring to the undead. They milled around the compound; British evacuees and Russian soldiers, both victims to a network of political lies.

“It’s like pe
ering through the looking glass,” Paul remarked when he felt Yuri move beside him.

“I don’t understan
d this phrase,” the Russian spoke softly. The wonder of their situation, the hidden wonder in the factual creation of a myth, was not lost on him.

“Like Lewis Carroll’s,
Alice in Wonderland.
What I mean is they are the same as us. Two groups, thrown together without understanding why. Only, we still have ourselves, our self-control, while they…they are empty.”

“Like reflections. It loo
ks the same, but is but a shell,” Yuri spoke proudly, pleased that he had understood the metaphor. Paul smiled at the man’s enthusiasm, and didn’t have the heart to correct him.
Close enough,
he thought.

In the mess hall, the groups sat, intermingled, with two clear groups having been formed. Although there was no clear hard or fast rule governing the split.

“Come, now we eat.” Yuri walked into the kitchen and sat down. Paul followed suit. While the chatter continued, a delightfully foreign aroma wafted out of the kitchen area, and a short time later, two large pots of a type of Russian stew were brought to the table. Everybody ate with gusto. The company, even in the face of the long term odds, had reinvigorated people. The removed threat of immediate execution had lightened the mood in both camps somewhat also.

Night fell, and as people were shown to their rooms, Paul somehow found himself returning to the library with Yuri. He feared a second vodka session, but his concern was unfounded. It was wine. A fine Merlot, which only added to his confusion at the state of the Russian military.

“We will be required to clear this compound. We will work together. No military, no civilians. No Russia, no Britain. We are one. You and I their leaders. So, friend, comrade, shall we work together?” Yuri got straight to business as he took a sip from his wine glass.

“I think that is a wonderful idea. We should work in teams. Your men are soldiers. They should take the lead, along with the strongest of us. Each man and woman will need to be armed. We seal of the compound first…”

“You mean, lock them inside…with us.”

“Yes, that way they cannot escape, and more cannot come.” Paul gave a gentle nod as he spoke, and watched the understanding cross Yuri’s face almost before he spoke.

“You are a clever man. We then dispose these creatures. We have enough weapons; bullets.” Yuri was proud of his compound, in spite of its reformed purpose.

“No guns, the sounds only attract more. Knives, bats. Weapons have to be manual – hand to hand work. Only shots to the brain actually stop them.” Yuri nodded as Paul spoke, listening
with intent. The zombies were new to him, and the knowledge Paul shared was the most valuable anybody could ever give another person.

“Thank you, my friend. You have shared with me great details. You could have sent us out alone, to our deaths. You are a great English man. But now, let us talk. I have heard of your writing stories. You write down the tales of people, no?” Yuri smiled as he spoke, as if he were in the presence of a truly great name.

“Well, I am not Chaucer, but yes, I wrote down what had happened to people. That is how we learned the truth,” he added, taking pride in his own work, and amateur detective skills.

“You continue to impress me. Will you still write your stories, of the new days that lie ahead of us all?” There was eagerness to the voice that made Paul smile, for he knew what was coming.

“I haven’t given it any thought. I mean, I guess, there will be many tales to tell.” Paul smiled.

“Yes indeed, many tales of the undead, of heroes like yourself, and maybe even… a strong Russian champion, a second hero to the tales.” Yuri spoke with a sudden dry seriousness, and when Paul smiled at him, the pair both broke into a deep laughter.

Paul rose from the sofa, his comfort zone found, and refilled both glasses of wine. He handed one to Yuri, and then paced the room, staring at the books that lined the shelves.

“This room was left over from the war time. It was locked away. A secret room until we moved in under orders from the Kremlin. It is quite special here, no?” Yuri talked from the sofa, allowing Paul the freedom to wander where he wished.

“Yes, it is a room I could only dream of.” He spoke, walking along the shelves. He came to the desk and stared at the pen and paper that lay there. The upper sheet was yellowed with age, and the pen - a fountain point, the pot of ink still in its holder. He reached out and touched the pen, feeling the weight of it in his hand.

The paper too, was of a high quality, and had a generous feel to it.

“The rumor is that Stalin himself sat at this desk. That this room was his, or used by him, and only the highest of dignitaries.” Yuri smiled again, enjoying the look of wonder that spread on Paul’s face. “Sit, feel it. The world has changed, but history will always remain. We must never lose our history, for good or bad. It has made us who we are today, and allows us to determine who we will become tomorrow.”

Paul sat. The heavy leather chair squeaked as he found a comfortable position. He reached for the ink and removed the cap. With the pen filled, he wrote across the top of the page.

We have seen the world of men fall, the dead have risen, but we are survivors, and these words are.…

He paused, before leaving two blank lines and writing in large letters, three lines thick:

The Diaries of the Damned

He looked up from the page, and saw Yuri watching him intently. He took a deep breath and topped up the pen.

“So Yuri….Tell me your story.”

TO BE CONTINUED…?

***

Who is Alex Laybourne
?

Born and raised in the coastal English town
Lowestoft, it should come as no surprise (to those that have the misfortune of knowing this place) that I became a horror writer.

From an early age I was sent to schools which were at least 30 minutes' drive away and so spent most of my free time alone, as the friends I did have lived too far away for me to be able to hang out with them in the weekends or holidays.

I have been a writer as long as I can remember and have always had a vivid imagination. To this very day I find it all too easy to just drift away into my own mind and explore the world I create; where the conditions always seem to be just perfect for the cultivation of ideas, plots, scenes, characters and lines of dialogue

I am married and have four wonderful children; James, Logan, Ashleigh and Damon. My biggest dream for them is that they grow up, and spend their lives doing what makes them happy, whatever that is.

For people who buy my work, I hope that they enjoy what they read and that I can create something that takes them away from reality for a short time. For me, the greatest compliment I can receive is not based on rankings but by knowing that people enjoy what I produce, that they buy my work with pleasure and never once feel as though their money would have been better spent elsewhere.

Feel free to stop by my website
www.alexlaybourne.com
or find
me on
Facebook
or on
Twitter

Works by Alex Laybourne

Novels:

Highway to Hell Trilogy (Book 1)

Highway to Hell Trilogy (Book 2): Trials and Tribulations

Coming soon:

Highway to Hell Trilogy (Book 3)

Extract from Highway to Hell

Marcus Fielding looked at his watch; he was halfway through his shift, the last one of his current rotation, not to mention the last shift before his three-week vacation. It was a sort of second honeymoon. He and his wife had been together twenty years the previous April, yet had never been away just the two of them. They had always had at least one kid tagging along; first it was the twins, Erica and Bryony, then Roger, and finally little Marcus Jr. Not that Marcus cared. His kids were his life, and he would do anything for them.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand before replacing his cap. It was the middle of July and the temperature had been stuck in the low thirties for over two weeks already. While the heat was welcome, the new bulletproof vests the force had just issued made the officers who wore them lose fluid quicker than they could consume it. All in the name of safety,
the duty sergeant had said. “Easy for him to say”, Marcus had grumbled along with all the others in his section at the end of their first shift wearing the new vests. He remembered that there had been a queue of people by the toilets waiting to wring their shirts out before putting them in their bags.

“I’ll make one more round
and then head back to the car. I’ll meet you there,” he spoke into his radio using another recent addition – the covert earpiece and microphone.

“Ok
ay, I’m done up here anyway. There’s nobody…it’s too hot. Everybody’s down at the beach,” a young voice answered him; optimistic as ever, his love for the job still passionate and unbridled.

Simon
Dillings had been on the force for three months and was the lucky protégé of Marcus. The only problem Marcus and every other officer he knew had with tutoring a rookie was the foot patrol. Although it did bump him up over quota, not to mention it was a tried and tested method of breaking in the new guys, showing them it’s not always gunfights and car chases like you see in the movies.

“Lucky them. Well we’ll head in for some grub and then you can impress me with your paperwork skills again. How’s that sound?” Marcus asked, grinning as he pictured Simon’s face drop, his glasses slip down his nose
, and his mouth screw up, pursing his lips together in a way that made him look constipated. Marcus liked the kid. He was a good, honest guy, and he would go a long way.

“Boy, sounds like a party. You sure do know how to spoil a man,” the voice answered back, a little bit of attitude finally beginning to crack the ‘good-boy’ rookie shell.

The town center was quiet, with the age demographic definitely favoring the slow moving older citizens whose idea of causing trouble ended with whispering about someone at the local bingo hall or bridge club meeting. Deciding to cut his route short, Marcus turned left at the midway point of the high street and entered the covered shopping arcade. It had just been renovated a couple of weeks before, but the local youths had already managed to tag two walls with vibrant paint and even more colorful language.  Truth be told, Marcus was surprised it had taken them that long. The town wasn’t known for being the most picturesque place in the country, and with an unemployment rate that never seemed get any lower, benefit claimants flocked to the town in droves; which in turn had led to council estates springing up wherever there had once been a bit of green ground where the kids could play.