Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3 Read online

  Not Dead Yet

  Book 1-3

  K. Bartholomew

  Not Dead Yet: Book 1-3

  By K. Bartholomew

  Copyright © 2019 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.

  Contents

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  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

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  Book 2

  Foreword

  Local Boy Done Good

  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

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  Book 3

  Foreword

  Map of Southern England

  Mission Map

  Strappy’s Back

  Eton

  Lay Of The Land

  The Duke

  Triple Lock

  Brute

  Today

  I’m Really Here

  The Long Road Through The Forest

  An Abandoned House In The Woods

  Calamity

  Our Nation’s Hero

  Kempsey Manor

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  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 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 on which to gain a purchase.

  “Let’s have it, Strappy.” She dug in harder while all I could do was flap about in frustration.

  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 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 managed to clamber further aboard, the tablecloth aiding my glide as I lamented the distance to my riding crop, strewn haphazardly atop my breeches upon 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. 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 incredible 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 as the table creaked most fiendish. She noticed 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.”

  I ignored her meaningless prattle and strained again for the crop because if there was ever a ‘lady’ who required a good thrashing, it was this one.

  More vexing groans of oak followed, only from further away, and her nails withdrew from my buttocks. “Blast…it’s my husband.”

  As I’d learned from past experience, 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, was bounding up the stairs, no doubt with pistol and a three-foot-long cavalry blade buckled to his person.

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

  “Oh, how you panic, Strappy. Won’t you at least stay for tea?” The madwoman absolutely asked as she leaned back over the table, her dress still 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, Londoners were plodding about their business on this sunny Tuesday afternoon and how small they looked in plaid blazers and bowlers, holding canes and whistling like doomsday wasn’t presently threatening to suffocate us all - That famed British stiff upper lip that existed even during an apocalypse.

  The creaking was uncomfortably close now 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 practised at it.

  The chimney breast was too narrow for my broad shoulders, which was a damned nuisance because I’d have stepped over blazing coals to seize it. There were no wardrobes either, no chests, nothing.

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

  What happened next I could never have predicted…

  …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. Unlike myself, where I at least still donned my cavalry tunic, he was crouching completely naked, his clobber clutched in pale and trembling arms.

  “Bit of a young one, aren’t you, old boy?” He enquired, 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 as his clammy 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 might 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 twitching by the man’s feet through the small gap between tablecloth 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 gravel, that deep rumbling growl, parade ground practised, that always struck me with such terror. Even now, I could picture his ridiculous moustache, twice the width of his head held rigid by tar. “No, no, you stay there…let me just…”

  If I got the pox I’d know why.

  Boots struck wood first, then the shako, scabbard, thank God, and finally tunic, breeches and drawers.

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

  I tried to blot out the sounds, which unfortunately meant having to humour the character to my side, who even now was studying my face with uncomfortable 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 practising barrister, should you ever require one.” Which, considering my present predicament, might 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 to have such a man in his back pocket, especially considering my unrivalled 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 pegged.” His grey eyes flicked up to the thrashing above our heads. “And, I do believe, that’s your commanding officer, what?”

  I maintain that the 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. 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 her.

  “The man hates me and will see me dead.” I grabbed a clump of my hair and tugged. “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 most and he’d be done - Surely!

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

  “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 see Old Goodford 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 was soon to find out.

  Old Tubs was sweating from 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 dish out a flogging because of the physical exertion involved? There’d been talk the present lack of discipline in college was connected to his girth which, on account of a broken leg, seemed to expand with every passing week.

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

  He flapped a chubby mitt. “Well then, you should have thought about that before taking it upon yourself to administer a beating to young Master Davis, shouldn’t you?” He shook his head sadly and regarded me as though I was the very worst of students. “Something about your shaving water not being the correct temperature, Master Strapper.”

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

  Turning in for class in a state of inebriation, sneaking off college with Clayton and Hawthorn to visit the local bawdy house, running a book for the Epsom Derby, seducing the housemaid; not one of which resulted in anything more than my bare buttocks enduring a tickling from 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 and Hawthorn 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 the fags. You make their lives miserable. But you send them home that first summer as men. I was bullied as a fag. All I was doing was settling the score and I’d no doubt that Davis would do the exact same thing 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…and the family business. Please, listen to me. One last chance is all I ask. I’ll never do so much as even look at another fag.” I was aware how pathetic I must have looked and didn’t need to turn my head to know my so-called friends would be smirking at my misfortune. “Please, sir…why not let Clayton birch me?”

  His head jerked back at that. “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 coming to the world when a sixth former couldn’t dispense the occasional thrashing to his youngers? If I ever saw that little snitch again…

  “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 against the table. “Young man, in my day we didn’t speak to our headmaster 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 revolves around 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 and Hawthorn, my former friends, were dragging me out as though it wasn’t only the night before we’d been standing in a line, our breeches around our ankles as we boarded Windsor’s finest.

  Clayton 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,” he said with a visible smirk he’d be going and I wouldn’t.

  “Judas!” I yanked myself away and in a terrible fit, tore off my cravat and waistcoat, scattering silver buttons across the cloister.

  Clayton’s side parting had become ruffled and he 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, tup some madams, what?”

  I was in a rare rage and snarled, “Soho? Madams? With you? I’d rather have your mother.”