Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2

  NOT DEAD YET

  A Zombie Apocalypse Series: Book 1 - 2

  K BARTHOLOMEW

  Contents

  Sign Up Page

  Book 1

  Foreword

  London 1860

  My Last Day At Eton

  An Uncle With Connections

  Uneasy Feelings

  Colonel Lord John Charles Henry Fitzgibbon, VC

  Initiation

  Getting Out Of The Army

  More Tribulations

  Pistols At Dawn

  The Idiotic Expedition South

  The Road To Strabane

  A New Threat

  Garrison

  The Horde

  Galway

  Book 2

  Hero’s Welcome

  A Chance Encounter

  An Introduction To Society

  Moving Up

  Fitzgibbon Returns

  Temptation, Undoing

  In Transit

  Pigeon Post

  Gone Rogue

  Saturday Night Entertainment

  Going Rogue

  Stirling

  An Old Friend

  Cheese And Scotch

  Vocation In Life

  The Horde Cometh

  Siege

  Trapped

  Nowhere To Run

  Sign Up Page

  Also by K Bartholomew

  Not Dead Yet: Book 1 - 2

  By K. Bartholomew

  Copyright © 2016 K. Bartholomew. All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance the characters may have to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Warning: This book contains graphic language, scenes of zombie gore, violence and mild sexual content from the start.

  Sign Up Page

  Join my email newsletter to get instant notification when the next book is available. You’ll also get to know about the many free books and promotions I do.

  Sign Up Here

  Like My Facebook Page

  BOOK 1

  Foreword

  Only a poor man’s coward acts in the moment, to ensure his wellbeing. But a real coward, someone such as myself, thinks far ahead into the future, forges friendships and bonds that might later serve him and when the time comes, acts.

  London 1860

  The table creaked as Lady Fitzgibbon dug her nails into my back.

  She’d pulled me down too hard and my bare legs and buttocks see-sawed back with her, leaving my feet with nothing to gain a purchase on.

  “Let’s have it Strappy.” She dug in harder, out of frustration if anything, as I winced and flapped about.

  Yes - Jack Strapper was my real name and a curse as much as an asset. Sure, it opened doors to the bedrooms and boudoirs of society’s ladies but once there it was always expected I could perform - Which usually I could without a problem. But on this occasion, in my blind lust for the tart, I’d stupidly chosen the dinner table in a freezing cold upstairs dining room. Aye, there was much a name could do for you, if you had the right one.

  I used my arms to pull myself further aboard, the table cloth aiding my glide as I sighted my riding crop and helmet strewn haphazardly atop my breeches on the floor.

  But it wasn’t just my name, full of connotation, that opened doors and provided access to what my peers could only dream.

  No - More than anything, it was my reputation.

  Reputations can build or destroy not only people but entire civilisations. And once a reputation is earned, one must do all he can to maintain and cultivate it - Because without reputation, a man is nothing.

  The only problem was - My reputation was one big fraud.

  My reputation was built on lies, manipulation, cowardice, staggering coincidences and most of all, a seemingly never ending run of incredibly good luck.

  But as long as the likes of Lady Fitzgibbon and the rest of England knew no better, well then, who could blame me for milking it like a Jersey cow with an extra teat?

  “The blazes with it, would you keep still woman.” With my knees now on the table I could finally perform in a manner my name befitted and I ground away whilst irked my riding crop was too far from arm’s reach.

  The table creaked most fiendish and she must have seen my alarm.

  “Ignore it Strappy, it’s a Henderson and will last through doomsday…perfect craftsmanship…ooh yes like that…we purchased it from Buckinghamshire last autumn, don’t you know and it cost more than a pretty penny.”

  “Would you shut up, woman.” I strained again for the crop, because if there was ever a ‘lady’ who required a good thrashing, it was this one.

  More vexing creaks followed and this time it was she who glared wide eyed. “Blast…it’s my husband.”

  As I’d learned in the past, those three words more than any others can inspire terror in a man, especially if, like me, he happened to be a born coward. But I had more reason than most to fear Lord Fitzgibbon who, even now, strolled up the stairs and no doubt had his cavalry blade attached to his person.

  I was at the window in two giant strides, straining every sinew to force it open, which it did with an inconveniently loud slam. The first leg was over the side, my knackers catching against something sharp that pointed upwards, before I’d even had chance to survey the drop.

  “Oh, how you panic, Strappy. Won’t you at least stay for tea?” The mad woman absolutely asked as she still leaned back over the table, her dress hitched up around her waist.

  Then I saw the drop, which in my haste had clearly deserted my mind along with the huge flight of steps I’d taken to get here. Below this Mayfair residence, people plodded about their business on this sunny Tuesday afternoon and how small they looked in their plaid blazers and bowlers, holding their walking sticks.

  The creaking trod closer and I yanked my leg back inside, almost losing my equilibrium whilst still managing to scan the room for options. That’s what cowardice does to a man - You get practiced at it.

  The chimney was too narrow for my broad shoulders which was a damned inconvenience because I’d have taken it even if the fire was lit. There were no wardrobes either, or chests, or anything.

  I didn’t find salvation until the door opened, diving below the table as the man entered.

  What happened next I could never have guessed…

  …I was not alone.

  I resisted the urge to yelp out in alarm as I nestled up beside the man, who like me, now curled into the foetal position. But unlike myself, where I at least still donned my cavalry tunic, he crouched completely naked and clutched his clobber within his arms.

  “Bit of a young one, aren’t you, old boy?” He said, as though we were on the train from London to Brighton. Then he squinted at me funny like the cogs were working inside his head. Pretty soon he’d have me pegged for who I was and my ill-gotten reputation would be at stake.

  I grimaced in his direction as his left flank pressed against my right. “Bit of an old one, aren’t you?”

  “That’s the spirit, old boy. Was worried for a moment the table would implode, seeing as you’re a big chap.” I assumed he meant my six foot frame. “Didn’t get the chance to finish either, aye…another minute then perhaps…”

  This wasn’t happening and this conversation definitely wasn’t happening.

  Above us, the conversation was going somewhat differently and I could see the tip of a cavalry scabbard moving by the man’s feet through th
e small gap between table cloth and dusty wooden floor.

  “Ah, darling…not like you to be so raring and ready, what?” It was definitely Lord Fitzgibbon. Nobody else had a voice that sounded like it was filtered through a cheese grater, that deep rumbling growl that always struck me down with such fear. I pictured his ridiculous moustache, twice the width of his head, twitching with every word. “No, no, you stay there…let me just…”

  If I got the pox I’d know why.

  First the boots hit the wood, then the shako, scabbard thank God and finally the tunic, breeches and drawers.

  His shadow enlarged through the table cloth fabric and then the table shuddered and groaned as he clambered aboard, two pairs of feet thrashing about inches from my face.

  I tried to blot out the noises, which unfortunately meant having to humour the character to my side, who even now was studying my face with too much scrutiny.

  The man must’ve been in his fifties, Lady Fitzgibbon clearly not having a cut off point either side of her thirty years, and was bald on top with a half ring of dark hair around the back and sides of his head. But it was the ginger whiskers, in contrast to his head that made this man most distinctive.

  “You’re Henry Melville…Right Honourable if I’m not mistaken.” And none other than our local member of parliament. His reaction proved me right…

  …He grinned, “and practicing barrister, should you ever require one.” Which, considering my present predicament, would not be beyond future possibilities. “I dare say, but I’m struggling to put a name to the face, although I’ve definitely seen you in the papers.”

  Reputation? What harm could it do, divulging my name to a man I met crouching naked beneath a married lady’s table whilst her husband frolicked with her atop, unknowing of our deeds? I had as much dirt on our elected official as he had on the nation’s hero and only a fool would pass up the opportunity of having such a man in his back pocket, especially considering my ability at digging myself into deep holes.

  “Captain Jack Strapper, of the 11th Hussars.” I held out my hand, but didn’t linger too long with his sickly grip.

  “Ah, that’s the one, old boy, I knew I had you somewhere.” His grey eyes flicked up to the thrashing above our heads. “And, I do believe, that’s your commanding officer, what?”

  I maintain that Colonel Lord John Charles Henry Fitzgibbon had it in for me since our very first encounter at the barracks in Londonderry almost two years ago, and there was no man more than he who was angered more by my sudden rise to prominence.

  But now the swine would get his wish. He’d discover I’d cuckolded him and then, with law and order not being what it once was, it’d be pistols at dawn and not even my fame would save me, especially after being publicly disgraced. If there was one thing the English loved more than a hero, it was seeing that same hero broken at the end of it. And I’d seen Fitzgibbon with both pistol and duelling sword, and didn’t much fancy my chances with either. Yet with the entire nation believing me a hero, how could I refuse his demands for satisfaction?

  The lady above giggled and I cursed the day I ever met the woman.

  “The man hates me and will see me dead.” I grabbed a clump of my hair and pulled. “How did I ever get myself into this?” Ah yes, my insatiable lust and ability at getting myself into ridiculous situations.

  Melville nudged me with an elbow. “Looks like we have time…”

  “…For what?” I asked, shuffling away.

  He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “For your story. Why does your commanding officer hate you so, and how does a national hero end up here, like this, with me?”

  Well, it’d be unlikely I’d have the opportunity to get deep into the tale anyway, given the jezebel had often complained about her husband’s lack of physical stamina and prowess. Five minutes at the most and he’d be done - Surely!

  The blazes with it. What else was there to do?

  “It began the day I was kicked out of Eton…”

  My Last Day At Eton

  I knew this time was different because I was hauled to Old Goodford’s office between Clayton and Hawthorn, the two head prefects as well as my supposed friends and damned if they’d tell what it was about, though I soon found out.

  Old Tubs sweated from his seated position behind his polished desk. “We’ve had enough! Enough is enough is enough Master Strapper. There’s only so much I care to birch a young man before a whipping loses all meaning.” How much of this was down to his lack of desire to administer a flogging because of the physical exertion involved? There’d been talk the present lack of discipline at school was connected to his girth, which on account of a broken leg, seemed to expand with every passing term.

  The birches sat in a glass cabinet directly behind his head and I now gazed at them with longing. “No…you can’t. My father, he’ll…please, sir.”

  He waved a chubby mitt. “You should have thought about that before striking young Master Davis.”

  Really? That’s why I was being expelled? My mouth hung ajar on hearing that damn fool reason.

  Turning in for class in a state of inebriation, sneaking off college with none other than Clayton here to visit the local bawdy house, running a book for the Epsom Derby, attempting to seduce the house maid - Not one of which resulted in anything more than having my bare buttocks thrashed by Old Goodford.

  And it wasn’t like I’d never sustained a birching for bullying fags in the past, which was the ridiculous thing about it - We all did it, Clayton included. We damned well near pulled young Heath’s arms from their sockets with that stretch rack we devised. It was Eton tradition - You bully fags, you make their lives miserable, you send them home that first summer as men. I was bullied when I was a fag. All I was doing was settling the score and I’d no doubt that even Davis would do the same when he reached the sixth.

  I fell to my knees and clasped my hands together. “Please, sir…my future. I’m supposed to be heading for Oxford…then for the family business. Please, listen to me. One last chance is all I ask. I’ll never strike a fag again.” I was aware how pathetic I must have looked and didn’t need to turn my head to know Clayton would be smirking at my misfortune. “Please, sir…Clayton can birch me.”

  His head jutted back. “Master Strapper, despite what you may have heard, I’m more than capable of dealing out a few blows to a bare backside.”

  Why was this Davis chap so special anyway? Who were his parents and how much were they donating? And what was happening with the world when a sixth former couldn’t bully his youngers?

  “Sir, I was doing him a favour. See…listen here…he needs toughening up…and I think I can help him…”

  He slammed his fist down with a crack. “Young man, in my day we didn’t speak to our head masters in such a way.” You’d think it’d be enough to merit a flogging. “And as for Oxford? Well, I’ve been watching you, Master Strapper, and your test scores are hardly what I’d consider Oxford standard. So, unless the family business involves collecting dog faeces for the tanners then you’ll need to find another career my lad.”

  And with a nod of Old Tubs’ head, Clayton was dragging me from the office as though I’d never before seen him with his breeches around his ankles whilst hammering away at Madam Bordeaux.

  He shoved me into the corridor. “No hard feelings, Strappy…it all looks good on the old report card, you see…must do what Old Tubs says…what with Oxford approaching…”

  “Judas!” I yanked myself away from him and walked of my own volition.

  His side parting had become ruffled and he now brushed it over and patted it down, nice and neat. “Oh, come on, old boy, what would you have done in my situation? I hope we can still visit Soho this summer, as was the plan? Tup some madams, what?”

  “Soho? Madams? With you? I’d rather board your mother.”

  Five minutes later I was with my bags outside the cloister swearing that one day I’d get one up on them both.

  IT WAS LATE ne
xt day when the coach brought me home to the Sussex countryside after making a half dozen stops at various pubs and ale houses in attempts to stall and formalise my story.

  I still hadn’t settled on a version of events that would curtail my father’s rage. What could I say, arriving home in mid May, two months before final examinations?

  But after paying the driver to drag my cases to the front door of my father’s estate, what I received next was quite unexpected.

  I knocked on the door but it wasn’t my father who answered.

  “Jack?” Mrs Clayton stepped back as I shuffled around her. “Shouldn’t you be at Eton?”

  Caught unexpected, I see. “Shouldn’t you be with Mr Clayton?”

  That shut her up. And I distinctly saw the shame flash across her aged, yet still beautiful face before she turned back to the door and took an unusually long time closing it. “Jack’s in the study.”