Extract from "The Dead Plague" by Ian F White

IN THE MUDDY YARD of a half-stone, half-timber farmhouse stood a tall, thick-set man. He should have been dead – the three arrows buried deep in his broad chest and the bloody, ragged festering hole through one thick thigh were testament enough. He was dead... yet still he moved.

Somehow, his senses still worked too as he slowly turned and began to shamble ominously towards the four soldiers who had halted on the edge of the wood, no more than fifty feet away.

The soldiers moved cautiously into the clearing of the farmstead, forming a semi-circle. They lowered their crossbows and drawing thin bladed daggers or hand-axes from their belts. Missile ammunition was scarce these days and only to be used in emergencies; a single plague victim, no matter how big he was, did not constitute such an emergency.

The dead man’s bare, heavily muscled arms, barrel chest and sturdy leather apron – now soiled with all manner of dirt and mess – marked him as a blacksmith by trade.

The leader of the soldiers – a captain, – stepped forward without a word to meet the approaching abomination. Like the others, he wore a steel helm, but where they had leather jacks, he was clad in a long chainmail shirt. His broadsword was at the ready, its blade resting gently upon his right shoulder. His clean-shaven face was impassive; this thing was no longer a man – it must be put to rest.

Onward shambled the hulking, near-crippled walking corpse. It groaned and gurgled as it lumbered nearer. The captain swallowed hard and steeled himself for the task ahead. This slaughter – no matter how necessary – never came easy to him.

The ex-blacksmith was now close enough for the captain to see its shattered and torn face. A loose fold of grey flesh flapped from its lower jaw, the skin of its neck caked in dried blood and spittle. A number of teeth were missing and those that remained showed yellow and rotten. It appeared to have suffered a sword blow to its mouth, yet it still worked its jaws, producing a dull grating noise. Its vacant eyes were bloodshot orbs within deeply sunken sockets. The long lank hair upon its head hung down in blood-streaked strands that swayed to the rhythm of its unsteady gate.

It was almost upon the captain now. Long, powerful arms extended, and huge claw-like hands groping for him, a strange urgency about its actions.

A wave of nauseating stench washed over the captain. He felt his stomach churn, but clamped his lips together, swallowing back the bile. And then he stepped to his right and with practiced ease, swung his sword – two-handed – in a high arc which slowed only momentarily along its path.

The thing’s head sailed high into the air and landed with a solid thud on the ground among the watching soldiers. The body collapsed in a crooked heap at the captain’s feet.

A soldier cursed loudly and the captain turned in time to see one of his men bring his heavy boot down hard upon the severed head. The skull cracked open with a sickening crunch at the first blow – the putrefied contents gushed out in a pool of gore.

The youngest of the soldiers turned away, doubled over clutching at his belly, and heaved up his breakfast.

The first soldier, a large, portly man in his late forties and sporting a greying bushy beard, walked up to the Captain. The third man was tall and wiry, his clothes hung loose and baggy on his lean frame. He patted the back of the younger soldier as he watched the big bearded man through eyes that were slits beneath thick black brows.

The big soldier halted and spat on the body of the blacksmith. “Big bastard wasn’t he, eh, laddie?” he said in a Lowland Scottish accent.

The Captain gave him a sideways glance while he wiped the mess from his sword blade. “Don’t start that again, Angus. You call me Captain, or you can call me John. Don’t call me laddie.”

The big Scotsman stared belligerently at the Captain.

“While you wear the Lord’s livery,” John continued, lifting a corner of Angus’s dark blue tabard, “you are under my command.”

“Whatever you say... John,” Angus said and spat again.

“Good. Now, take young Jamie and have a look in the house.”

“And you?” Angus asked, lifting his crossbow and pointing it at John.

John stared at the point of the bolt and then squarely into the big Scotsman’s eyes, his anger rising. “Do it,“ he growled.

Angus held the weapon leveled for a moment and then he grinned and shrugged, calling over to the other two men. “Jamie. You’re with me.” He headed off towards the house.

The young soldier wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic and followed after Angus without a word.

“I knew this man,” the tall soldier said, as he came up beside John, “His name was Robin Gray – he was the blacksmith at Millfield.”

“Millfield,” said John, pursing his lips, “he’s a long way from home.”

“Yes.”

“What do you make of Angus?” asked John.

The soldier rubbed his pointed nose with his palm and sniffed. “I’d slit his throat and leave him for the crows.” He caught John’s look of surprise, and shrugged. “He’s a bad man. Lord McCrery only took him in because he’s a Scot too.”

“He can be annoying, but he’s a good fighter.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Hmm, I’ll bear that in mind, Groves” said John. “Now let’s check out the barn and store.”

They left the headless corpse where it had fallen and walked towards the barn. They heard Angus whistling a merry tune from somewhere within the farmhouse. John shook his head. Noise and smell were the two things that attracted the risen more than sight.

“The man’s a dangerous fool,” said Groves...