The Fall Series (Book 3): The Fence Walker Read online

  THE FENCE WALKER

  Book 3 of The Fall Series

  by Stephen Cross

  stephencrossauthor.wordpress.com

  twitter.com/SCrossAuthor

  Copyright © 2018 by Stephen Cross

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover image attribution for Surviving the Fall : Kiselev Andrey Valerevich /shutterstock.com

  Cover image attribution for The Fence Walker : www.ebooklaunch.com

  Also by Stephen Cross. Read the rest of the series.

  SURVIVING THE FALL: Book 1 of The Fall Series

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01KBPYRFM

  AFTER THE FALL: Book 2 of The Fall Series

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0738PT6K2

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 1

  Jack part stepped and part slid down the high dune. The sand ran from under his feet, but he kept steady and moved fast; he spent most of his days on the lonely dunes and their shifting topography was no longer a challenge. Gusts of wind whipped up swirling sand, his eyes protected by his swimming goggles. His hands danced wildly, flinging high and low with adept unthinking accuracy, keeping him perfectly balanced as he almost tumbled down the hill. He looked like a strange penguin. His many layers, his matted long hair and thick beard, his large tool bag, all added to his unworldly appearance.

  It was no surprise the children of the camp laughed at him.

  Splatters of rain dashed his goggles. The sky, having been relatively clear when he left his chalet twenty minutes ago was now obscured by thick black cloud. The storms of the Cornish coast were fast, unforgiving, and unpredictable. His young daughter’s face, when he returned to the chalet after being caught in one, was always a picture; somewhere between hilarity and dismay - his clothes drenched, and his hair a heavy wet mat on his head.

  He reached the bottom of the sand dune and pulled out his brand-named waterproof coat and trousers. The Runners ensured everyone was always kitted out in the best gear.

  The sand exploded in dark orange pits as heavy raindrops bombed from the sky. He couldn’t stop though. His work was important. Maybe the most important job in the whole of the holiday camp. Not everyone saw it that way, but he didn’t care what others thought.

  Jack took the map out of his bag and struggled to get a good bearing as the heavy rain pooled and swam in rivulets on the waterproofed surface. If he hadn’t been so familiar with it, he never would have found his location, but there it was, his mark from yesterday. He cross-referenced his location using the compass, and, satisfied, began his walk along the Fence.

  He moved slowly, his eyes tracing the full height of the construction, from only six feet in some places to over ten in others. This section he was pleased with. Thick aluminum siding had been brought back from a recent run. Others had wanted the large pieces of metal to cover the roof in the weapon's room, to fight off the new leaks. Jack had won though. If the Fence went, everything went. Most still remembered the first few days after the Fall, when the population of the nearby old people’s home, dead and necrotic, had overrun the holiday camp. So he had got his panels. They covered a good hundred feet of the Fence. He had positioned them along the section most open to the beach and therefore the elements. He had been given a team and they had erected heavy poles into the sand, the panels being tied fast to them with strong ropes. Jack would have preferred chains, but he could only work with what the Runners found.

  Although the strongest section of Fence, it was still prone to growing gaps and leaking holes, as if it was alive, trying to break free. Everything had the tendency to reduce to chaos. The Fence would continue to fall apart, to break, to become weak in places. A never-ending cycle of repair and improvement.

  The panels rattled in the wind. Eerie whistling from small gaps funneling the wind like an alien instrument. The sea, always there, its proximity determined by the tide. Seagulls crying, the vocalists of the beach’s clumsy ensemble.

  Jack put his hands on the nearest panel and pushed it gently. There was a little give. He pushed harder and it moved nearly a full inch. Too much. He edged to the side of the panel where it joined the pole. Holes had been drilled a few inches in from the edge of the panel, through which the ropes had been fed. The rope had expanded, and there was a gap. Just enough for one of the dead to get a hold. One would do no damage, but it would attract more, which in turn would bring more. The backward and forward motion on the panel would stress the rope, and loosen the pole’s hold in the sand.

  They would get through. They always seemed to find a way through. Stupid and dumb on their own, but together, fatal and vicious.

  He pressed the side of his face against the panel. Its ice cold surface bit into his ear, but he held still. He closed his eyes and filtered out the seagulls, the sound of the wind, the boom of the waves.

  There it was.

  Scratching. The sound of fidgeting, of something impatient and desperate.

  Jack put his bag down and took out a large bowie knife. He tapped the knife’s handle on the panel; an empty clang almost lost in nature’s chamber. Most would have missed the answering sound. They weren’t as tuned to the outdoors as he was, they didn’t know these dunes and the Fence the way he did. He knew every sound, he understood every motion of the weather. They would have missed the groan. Imperceptible almost, but there to be heard by those who knew how to listen.

  He dragged his knife along the panel, leading the zombie to the gap by the pole. As Jack’s face came level with the gap, a brisk wind blew in from the beach, cold and hard, speckling his goggles with drops of water.

  He still saw it though. Its face rotten, more so than others he had seen. The skin had withdrawn from its cheeks and bone, no longer white but seemingly green with mildew or moss. One eyeball protruded prominently from its face, the pupil pointing in the wrong direction, obvious chunks missing from the whites. Strands of long hair flapped in the wind like seaweed in a strong current. It had a few teeth left in black gums, and the zombie snapped its jaws on seeing Jack.

  Over and over. Snap, snap, snap. A stupid animal. A dumb machine. A broken toy.

  As he looked at the eye of the creature on the other side of the fence, Jack’s stomach fluttered with shots of adrenalin and tiny butterflies. Not as bad as it used to be, but still there, still apparent: his fear. His mouth twitched involuntarily - a nervous tick he didn’t know he had until the Fall. His hand shook.

  As long as it was on the other side of the Fence, he could handle it.

  He steadied his nerves and raised the knife, slowly positioning the blad
e so it was in front of the zombie’s eye. It was easiest to enter there, a soft and quick path to the brain - if you could call it a brain. Here’s the world, there’s the living, go to them, destroy them, tear them limb from limb.

  He pushed the knife in quickly, with force. A liquid of indeterminate color squirted from the eyes. The zombie groaned like it was settling into a deep sleep. It shook. More of a spasm. Jack felt the weight on the knife as the zombie shut down and its legs gave way. He yanked the knife back. He had lost one a few weeks ago by not being quick enough.

  A damp thunk signaled the second end of life for the body on the other side of the fence. Jack heaved a sigh of relief. He wiped his knife down and put it in his backpack.

  He took out his map again. It was raining heavily now and raindrops covered the map as quickly as he could wipe them away. Even so, he took out his red marker and made a mark on the map, a red cross with a number.

  He turned his back to the wind and hunched over to create a dry protected area beneath him. He pulled a notebook from his top pocket, turned to the third page, and under the last entry, he jotted down the corresponding number from the map and the words, 'middle pole loose. Need chains. 4'.

  The entry above said, 'gap in wood panels, nearing one foot. 7'. He would need to deal with that one today, or it would be an 8 before he knew it.

  He continued his walk, fixing what he could and marking the areas he couldn’t. He only stopped to eat and go to the toilet. He saw no other zombies.

  Some time in the middle of the afternoon, as he was nearing the woods that lined the western side of the holiday park, he paused to pocket one of the many pine cones on the floor.

  Jack knocked on Peter and Mary’s chalet door. He heard running feet, and the door opened.

  “Daddy!” shouted Annie, jumping up. Jack hugged her tightly.

  “How’s my big girl,” he said. “What’ve you done today?”

  She pulled back from him and smiled. “I made some cakes with Mary.”

  “Did you now?” said Jack, smiling and looking over Annie’s shoulder to see Mary drying her hands on a dishcloth, walking from the kitchen to the doorway.

  “She’s been a little angel,” said Mary.

  “I don’t believe that,” said Jack.

  “Hey!” said Annie, a mock pout on her lips.

  “Where’s Peter?” said Jack.

  “He’s down by the marina. I think we lost a boat the other night.”

  Jack frowned. “Another one?”

  Mary nodded. “Apparently so.”

  “Aren’t the Fishers tying them up or something?” said Jack.

  Mary didn’t answer but gave Annie a kiss. “Thank you for a lovely day, You have a nice evening with your Daddy, and we’ll see you tomorrow. Do you want a cake or two, Jack?”

  “I do!” said Annie.

  “Looks like that’s a yes,” said Jack. He peered into Mary’s chalet as she walked across the open plan lounge to the kitchen. Flour, bowls, and dirty spoons covered the work surface. She put a few cakes in a bag.

  “I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble?” said Jack.

  “Don’t be daft,” said Mary handing the bag to Jack, her old arms shaking under the weight.

  “Ok, well, thanks Mary, I’ll drop her off same time tomorrow.”

  “Ok, Jack. Oh, and Jack, if you want me to cut your hair, or help you with your washing, just let me know.”

  She was only trying to be helpful. “No, that’s Ok,” said Jack as he walked across the twenty feet gap to his and Annie’s chalet. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” he called, opening his door.

  “I’ll have to put you down, you’re far too heavy these days,” said Jack lowering Annie to the floor. “It must be all those cakes.”

  Annie laughed. “I don’t eat that many,” she said, sitting down, yawning.

  “I guess it’s been a busy day,” said Jack.

  She nodded her face taking on a serious look, far too serious for a six-year-old. “I like it better when you’re here though.”

  Jack sat down next to her and put his arm around her. “You know I’ve got to go and do my work,” he said. “It’s very important work. You know that.”

  “Others say it isn’t that important. So you can spend time with me.”

  Jack stiffened. “Who says it’s not that important?”

  “Some of the others at school,” said Annie. “Can we have a cake?”

  “Of course you can.” It was only kids saying it. But they probably heard it from their parents.

  “Did you get any zombies today?” said Annie.

  “No, I didn’t see any,” said Jack. “But I did get something else for you. Have a look at this.” He pulled the pine cone out of his pocket.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a pine cone. They come from pine trees, and they carry seeds for new pine trees. So big big trees come from this little thing. And you know what? Your Mummy used to love pine cones. She used to try and find the biggest ones when we went out for walks. When you were very little, she found a massive one, and it used to be in your nursery.”

  Annie took the pine cone and turned it in her hands. She looked at it closely, then clutched it to her chest. “Mummy would have liked this?”

  “She would have.”

  Annie hugged it like it was a teddy bear. She got up and walked down the thin corridor to her bedroom. Jack heard some rustling and Annie emerged carrying a metal tin. She put it on the floor, opened the lid, and placed the pine cone in the box. On the lid of the box was stuck with sellotape the only picture they had of Amy.

  “She’ll be able to see it now if we put it in her box,” said Annie.

  The box had been her idea. It was a magic portal that reached Mummy in heaven. She could see everything that was in there.

  “Here’s a pine cone, Mummy,” said Annie. “Daddy says you like these.”

  She closed the box.

  The little girl picked up the box and carried it back into her bedroom.

  Jack spent the evening as he always did. He would get dinner ready for them both. He would play some games with her; maybe some cards, a board game (an old 80’s game, Buck-a-roo had been brought in by the Runners last week. Jack had loved it as a kid, and he was happy to see that Annie did too. She seemed to have forgotten about her iPad altogether). He would get Annie ready for bed and tuck her in, then read her a story. The Runners had managed to amass a pretty good library, and given Mary was the head librarian, he usually managed to get first takes on any children’s books they found.

  The rest of the evening Jack spent washing Annie’s clothes and mending any that needed mending. He fixed anything in the chalet that needed fixing. He was lucky to have such a big chalet for the two of them. Three bedrooms, a bathroom, an en-suite and a large kitchen-lounge. One wall was completely glass and opened up to a veranda the backed onto a hedge, behind which was another chalet. More people arrived every week and the chalets were filling up. There were about eight hundred, not all as luxurious as Jack’s, and he was pretty sure that soon he’d be asked to move to a smaller one. He would deal with that situation if it arose.

  After Annie was in bed, his other nightly tasks included scouring the maps, prioritising the maintenance tasks he had been unable to complete that day; putting together a list of materials he needed; making sure his tools were in working order, that his knife was sharp, and his axe was in a solid state, sharp, the head well connected. The edge was already colored a dull red. It was impossible to get all the blood off, and he had given up trying.

  Any time left, and he would read.

  Sometimes he would just sit in silence and stare at the wall, or out the windows at the stars if it was a clear night. It was hard to believe that in all the years of his life he had never really seen the beauty of the night sky. The shocking white paint splatter of the millions of stars against the dark ink night, hidden by the sodium dystopian white of the world’s street lights.

  He
needed to be reminded there was beauty in the world.

  Annie screamed.

  Jack ran along the beach, spiking rain stabbing into his face, hitting his eyeballs, forcing him to run blind. The hard sand pulled at his feet and he hardly seemed to be moving.

  “Daddy! Help!”

  It had been daylight a few minutes ago, now it was dark, the clouds moving in with vengeance from the sea like an invading army. Bulbous black beasts, rumbling with the portent of disaster.

  “I’m coming, Annie, I’m coming!”

  Her small figure was on top of the rocks ahead, but no matter how fast he ran, she came no closer. The sand was now mud and the effort to move his feet was excruciating, his energy sucked dry.

  “Help me, Daddy, help me,” her voice now further away.

  The dead were around him now. Appearing from nowhere like they always did. He felt them pull at his arms, at his legs. Hands came from the sand.

  He tried to fight, but he had no energy, he could hardly move.

  Bone fingers, faces with no skin. Eyes hanging on optical cords.

  Amy.

  One of them was Amy. Her face pulled back in laughter. She came for his face, her jaw rattling like a machine gun.

  “Daddy!”

  Jack’s eyes shot open. His heart thumped against his chest and the sheets stuck to him, damp with sweat. He jumped out of bed and ran to Annie’s room. He pushed the door open.

  She was asleep, fast and sound.

  Early morning and Jack was queuing in the Runner’s office - a room inside the old reception and sales office of the holiday park. Outside, three 4X4s idled in the cold drizzle of the grey morning. Jack nodded to the people he knew. Most of them by face only; there wasn’t many he talked to.

  Ten minutes later and he was at the front of the queue. He placed his crumpled piece of paper on the desk in front of Ash, the head Runner.

  She was a slight, dark-skinned woman, with even darker eyes, focussed and probing. Jack never liked looking at her directly. Ash smiled thinly at Jack. “Three items, Jack.”