A Ring of Oak & Apple, First Look

The Ring of Oak & Apple novella is long overdue, so I thought I’d give you a look at the first chapter, The Ringfort. Bear in mind this is not the final draft and there are still tweaks to be made and a thorough edit in order. That said, I hope you enjoyed it and get a feel of what to expect from the story.

Chapter 1: The Ringfort

Silence was harder to deal with than the weeping. Periods of calm and quiet were cruel. They allowed the mind to wallow in the memory of what survival cost. It never lasted long though, weepers were always close. Fin was almost thankful for the numbing cold. It was far easier to deal with the threat of exposure, than to try and cope with insurmountable guilt. The mind needed to be occupied to keep out the ghosts. When it was too dangerous to toil and travel, pain worked as an adequate substitute.

Right now he needed to get off the river and find somewhere to rest. A few bottles of whiskey rolled around the bottom of the kayak. They would keep the nightmares at bay. He considered continuing on through the night. There would be a bright, full moon to light his path. It was tempting to let the current take him through Ireland, but he was already going on two days without sleep. It dulled his reactions. Only a matter of time before that killed him.

Fin was on the water for so long that he was not if it was still the same river. He had lost track of what day it was weeks ago. Nights, and when necessary days, were spent in abandoned homes. The last time he stopped he was trapped and killed time by painting the kayak a dark brown with house paint. He had hoped to mask the vivid red plastic of his craft in an attempt to draw less attention, but the infestation of weepers had not given him long enough for the paint to dry. Did they smell the fumes? The paint washed away in the river and the rain. 

How do they keep finding me? Fin rested the paddle on the kayak and traced his fingers across the surface of the river. He scooped up a handful of water and splashed his face. “They’re not following you. Start thinking like that, you’ll go mad.” It had been so long since he last spoke that his voice rasped. The dead had harassed him ceaselessly since the beginning of the outbreak that devoured Ireland. He hoped it was just his exhausted mind that gave the infected more wits than they actually had.

The water was black and dotted with small whirling pools that twirled across the surface, hinting at turbulent currents below. The eroded bank to his left was high and earthy, bored by rats or migrant birds. Heavy rainfall had transformed every timid tributary into an agitated, pulsing rapid. Fin was little more than a novice in the kayak. If the river rose any higher or became any fiercer, he would be forced to land. Desperation was all that kept him going and a determination to never allow himself become trapped again.

The field to his right was low enough for him to see the leafless hedges at its perimeter. The grass was dark and lush, almost impervious to the winter ice. Come morning it would be beautiful, glistening in a cloak of frost. I will not survive another night out in the open. Before the outbreak, Fin had thought of himself as being overweight. Now he was trimmer than he had ever been in his adult life. He could put a finger between his ribs. Wouldn’t mind a bit of pudge on my bones now. 

The severe cold did not kill the infected as he had so desperately hoped it would. It hastened the weepers transformation into zombies, but at least the weepers had the decency to announce they were going to kill you. They wept and wailed when they spotted prey. The zombies were silent. They lacked the speed and mobility of weepers, but often you did not know you were being watched by a zombie until they had their teeth in you. He was almost convinced that they sought shelter in buildings during the coldest nights. At this point in the quarantine most of the houses he entered were barren. Survivors were like locusts, leaving little behind. Some homes were burial mounds now. Shrines to those that were either too afraid to leave, or chose to die with some dignity, rather than face a gruesome end, or the protracted loss of their humanity.

It feels like a Monday. It was the strangest things that got on Fins nerves; for instance, he spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out what day of the week it was. Every day feels like a Monday. He could make a guess at the month by the small stretch coming into the evening. The sun would linger a little longer, but it still felt like he barely made any ground with the extra time. The night was going to be cloudless, he knew what little heat there was would flee the world the moment the sun set. Pushing on was stupid, but moving was probably his only way to keep warm.

Fin was cautious by nature, he had survived this long because he tested every possible failing of a choice before actually making it. He kept to fields and countryside, skirting along hedgerows instead of walking in the open. The journey across Ireland was going to take months. If by some miracle his loved ones were not already dead, they would be by the time he reached them. The river then was his only option for relative safety and speed. The only drawback really was that he was likely going to drown. The kayak had already turned a few times and tossed him into the freezing river, often over churning weirs. 

He shuddered at the thought of it happening in the dark. Or getting caught in the knitting of roots that wove across the riverbed. Your bones might make it home, eventually. Storm clouds had passed him earlier in the day. He had been on edge for hours, waiting for the rush and swell of a rain engorged river. 

Most of the fields he passed were divided either by fences, hedges, walls or roads. If any of the infected were following him, they could not possibly keep pace. Fin wondered why he had not encountered many people on the river. At night he caught the slow light of satellites streaking across the shadow of Ireland. By day there were no more aeroplanes in the sky, no contrails to trace back and wonder after their origin. 

Whenever he came across livestock, they ran to him full of excitement and questions he could not hope to answer. Those occasions he would stop to break down fences for them or cut through wires. Giving them more pasture to roam. Some paddocks were so packed with cattle or sheep that they had starved themselves. It was an unlucky time of year for the world to end, most farm animals were housed in sheds. Those were full of rotten flesh and skin too big for bones.

He was exhausted, full of doubt and fear and he faced an enemy that never questioned itself and never slept. All that drove them was a need to feed or infect. Against such a creature, Fin knew he had already lost. Stress was a constant vice gripping his chest. But you’re still breathing. Some people he encountered had lost patches of hair from worry. Others broke out in hives. They were the lucky ones, others lost their minds. He kept moving, only just keeping ahead of bad memories and malignant thoughts. Not much sanity to what I’m doing. Drink helped, specifically spirits, whiskey, but he no longer had a preference. The goal was brief oblivion. Hangovers were a nice distraction in the mornings too.

The meandering bends in the river had been uneventful, calm had coddled his wits. What he had assumed was a tree stump moved. Fin was too close to hide. He turned the paddle blade in the water to slow down and maneuver into deeper water. The river huckled and for a moment he thought the kayak would upend. 

What had once been a man stared into the river, then walked off the bank, disappearing with an insignificant splash. If it struggled, it lost against the deep and cruel currents. It did not rise.

Fin paddled close to the opposite bank to catch his breath. He remained hidden in the long reeds, waiting to hear the weeping of nearby infected riled by the noise. Was it a weeper, or was that suicide? Should I have said something? He imagined a starving person filling their pockets with stones and stepping off the bank. Was it an infected lured by its own reflection? Fin often wondered what went through their heads before they died. To walk and run required significant brain function. The small hairs across his body stood on end. He pushed off from the bank, entering the swifter flow of water. There was no point stopping here, he doubted he would find anything other than last letters filled with regrets.

*

The setting sun cast long shadows ahead of him. There was still beauty in the world and he tried not to be numb to it. Though he realised, he just used it as another distraction from the thoughts that plagued him. The dappled last light of day could not stop his mind from picking moments apart. Gallows humour helped, just not when you were alone. The man that went into the river plagued him for the rest of the day. The infection is always fatal. Maybe he was bitten. Instead of turning into one of those creatures, he decided to end it.  Fin paddled faster than was wise, to banish the image of a body being buffeted by the deafening thrum of the river. Will he turn down there? Will he wash up and roam the countryside as a zombie? Despite everything, that word still gave him trouble. It’s ridiculous. Once this is over, they’ll have to come up with a more serious name for them. If this ever ends.

The infected did not become faster during the night, nor did their numbers grow, but the dark was the canvas for Fin’s black thoughts. There were more screams during the night, he was almost certain of it. His theory was that survivors lost so much hope, that they often forgot that the sun would eventually rise. Those screams were his only contact with others. You learned to read the different types. There were guttural and brief ones. Those meant the person was likely dead or dying. Then there were those long and horrible ones, filled with despair. Those ones could overwhelm you if you were not careful. Fin hated the sound even more than the weeping and the silence. They filled the night with a horrible, infectious mania. Sharing a crazed hatred from the lonely and the desperate. The weepers always picked up the call. Maybe it’s a way to not feel so alone. 

Darkness got to people, he dreaded it. A few times when drink had made his caution impotent, he had to bite his sleeve to stop from screaming himself. Silence was anticipation, a cruel patch of calm in an endless storm, much like the rills and twirls on the river. It was a memory of something that once was. Silence would never be the same again for him. Before the outbreak, the peacefulness along the river would have halved his heart rate. Now it curdled his stomach. What little food he had managed to eat, threatened to come back up. 

Fin reached into a pocket in the katak and picked up his toothbrush. The bristles had been worn and frayed from overuse. His gums bled often and pained him. He was not sure when he started brushing his teeth excessively, but it was likely around the time he realised that there were no more dentists. After he had scrubbed his teeth, he brought out a small, nearly empty bottle of perfume. He held the cap to his nose and breathed in the smell of his girlfriend. Solene. He searched every house he broke into to find a replacement for his dwindling supply, but he had yet to come across one. Her familiar presence brought his panicked breathing down and slowed his racing thoughts from a gallop to a throt. 

Each small comfort brought its own pain. This one made him wonder how Solene was managing. She could be long dead for all I know. To banish the thought, he sprayed the smallest amount onto the inside of his dirty mask. He put the bottle away and revelled in her smell. She’s not dead. She’s watching the same moon rise.

*

Fin could not settle on a place to land. When the sky was tinged pink and red, he came close to the shallows of a field, but lowing cows caused him to return to the river. If the animals were still alive it meant that there were strong fences or walls around them, but it was likely that they had drawn a crowd of infected.

When there was only a purple hue left in remembrance of the day, panic started to settle  in and no amount of perfume could calm him. It was too late now to try to break into a house. He would have to ensure the area was clear first and then go from room to room checking. Once he was alone, he would have to create some form of barrier against the dead. There was the possibility of farm buildings or sheds, or even sleeping out in the open. He knew he would not be able to close his eyes in such situations. Listening to the wildlife and the prospect of an infected just walking onto him would ensure his nerves fizzled away to nothing.

The river slowed before emptying into a large lake. Open space reduced the tightness in his chest. It was a relief compared to the cramped hills and watching woods of the valley. He bit back tears at the brief sensation of triumph at having escaped. In dreams he would return to the slow, shallow, bendy stretches of the ancient waterway. Hear the scratch of riverstones against the underside of the kayak. The weep of excited infected and their churning wake as they trudged towards him. The river was a mass grave from source to sea, but it was the only reason he was still alive. To cross the country by land was suicide. 

He let the current and his thoughts carry him far from shore. The wind was sharp and cut with frost. There was light enough to make out the silhouettes of small islands dotted across the lake. The night was clear of weeping, he could almost fool himself into imagining that the world was back to normal.

He set out for the closest island, the prospect of resting surrounded by a large body of frigid water was the closest to content he had been in a long while. He had a small tent, a dry blanket and a couple of days worth of sleep to catch up on.

Unusual sounds made him stop and sit low. People? He could make out several voices. The undead were not the only ones to be feared, the living still had cunning, wits and hunger. If they’re still talking then they’ve not seen me yet. Anger blossomed as a lump in his throat. He wanted so much to be near others, but recent experiences made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He paddled away from the island, thinking to find the exit river and continue on. He knew he could not, it was too dark for that now. He needed to consult a map and find some road signs to orient by. Going on will not save time, I’ll lose ground getting lost.

He listened to the voices. They were too far away to make out words. He only had their tones to judge them by. Conversations were hushed and relaxed. The sound was so sweet and soothing that despite his better judgement, he followed it like a fish to a lure. He dragged the paddle blades through the water, making no noise. This was exactly what he feared, being in their position, observed, studied, caught unawares. Paranoia set in long ago. It was hard to trust people, especially when you yourself had done some inexcusable things. Things that made him feel like he was closer to being somebody entirely different, so far from his former self that he knew there was not enough forgiveness in the world to return to who he once was.

A dim, warm light shone through thick trees on the largest island. Confident that he was hidden in darkness, Fin approached, silent as a shadow. He waited there and listened, trying to picture faces to match voices. There was good spirited laughter. How long has it been since I heard somebody laugh? He discounted those occurrences when the people involved had gone mad. To him this distant contact was as nourishing as sleep. He just wanted to listen a little longer before leaving.

He waited idle for so long that the cold had made it through his layers and chilled his sweat dampened tee-shirt. The wind pushed him far enough along the shore that he nearly passed the island.

“Have you made up your mind yet?”

Startled, Fin nearly dropped the paddle. Instinctively, he reached for his hammer. He could not see the person who spoke and they did not step out from the tree cover.

“Are you going to stay out there all night long?”

Male. “It’s no longer just rude to arrive unannounced. It’s dangerous too,” Fin said, desperately trying to catch sight of the man.

“Nobody here will think any less of you for showing up without a bottle of wine.”

Despite his trepidation, Fin laughed. The sound must have been enough reassurance because the man revealed himself. “We’re all strangers here, you’re as welcome as anyone else. We just need to check for bites, if you intend on staying until morning. Have you your own food to keep you?”

“A little to share too. Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m alone?”

The man motioned for Fin to follow and started walking slowly along the shore. He sighed. “It’s a fair question. But what good would come of asking? Say you lied to me to make me think twice about robbing you, I’d lie in your position. Not a good foot to start on. You’re worried that if I think you’re alone, I might be less inclined to be friendly. It’s a loaded question. How horrible does it sound coming from me? Are you alone? I’d piss in my pants if our roles were reversed. I simply don’t care if you have more people. To be honest, we could use more. Besides, I watch the shore, I don’t need to ask if you’re alone.”

“For somebody that just said they didn’t want to put me on edge, I’m not sure how good of a job you’re doing.”

The man chuckled. “Where are you coming from?”

“Westport.”

The man faltered and slowed. “You know what happened there?”

Fin berated himself for mentioning it, but if the intentions of the people here were bad, at least their curiosity would keep them pleasant for a while. “I do.”

“There are some here that would happily give what little they have to speak with you.”

“I’m not here to take anything. News for news. We’ve all lost people and I don’t like reminding strangers of that, but if I can give them something, I will,” Fin said. “By the way, I heard your camp nearly from the shore. Sound travels far here. If you don’t want to be heard, you might be wary of that in the future.”

“We wanted to be heard by the living. Personally, I’d keep to a whisper at all times, but if we did that, then there would only be a third of the people here that there are now. You would have paddled right by us and straight into harm. I know I’d be dead if they had not lit the fire the night I passed.”

“Harm ahead, what am I in for?”

“I was in Dublin when this started. There are people here from every corner of the country. Some are on the fence about leaving. If you stay, there’s a lot of work here to be done, after you’re rested of course.”

“If I stay? You have it that good here?” Fin asked.

“Compared to what’s ahead, yes. I don’t think I’ll ever leave this valley again.” The man motioned for Fin to paddle towards the shore. 

Fin let his momentum carry him in so he could hold the paddle as a weapon, should the need arise. He was too tired to continue, too weary to find somewhere else to lie down and worry until exhaustion closed his eyes or the sun rose. He did not think he could sleep here amongst strangers, but it was his only option. The chance to get information about the route ahead was too tempting to pass up.

The man walked down to the water's edge just as the kayak scraped against the shore. Fin stepped out quickly, uncomfortable being at such a disadvantage. The water in the shallows soaked through his boots and pricked at his skin like shards of ice. “I was just thinking that once I tell the people here about what’s chasing me, I doubt they’ll want to continue on.”

“We’re trapped on all sides. I won’t shake your hand and I’m not fond of bowing to say hello. I’m Ian.” 

“Well you didn’t attack me the moment I set foot on the island, consider me warmly welcomed.”

Ian bent to pick up the back of the kayak. Fin was forced to take the front and lead the way to the camp. “Straight through the trees, you can’t miss it.”

“I’m Fin. How did yous end up out here?”

“Same as you, drifted on the river. Except we haven’t found a good enough reason to leave yet. There’s a lot of broken people here. I don’t know if there are many whole families left. Some have given up hope of finding loved ones, so they just wait here for things to settle down.”

Fin's arms shook, weak from wear. There was no way Ian did not feel it. He shouldered more than his share of the weight and did not complain.

The path to the camp was well worn. Silver shedding birch trees gave way to ancient knotted trunks, bearded with lichen and old moss. Bald from winter. Fin noticed the tiny buds that would unfurl into new leaves in a few weeks. “You don’t know what day it is, do you?”

Ian was silent for a moment. “No actually. I haven’t thought about that for a long time. Didn’t see the point. It’s nearly spring though.” 

The island was littered with old treated stone. Fin could feel a gentle rise beneath his feet. He was not expecting to walk into a ringfort, surrounded by ancient oak and apple trees. Their bare branches scraped the sky, trying to reach for the bulging moon. At its centre, there was a large fire. The walls of the fort kept most of the light hidden from the shore. The trees dispersed the rest. Conversation died down as Fin entered. It was much larger than he expected. Ian walked them into a clearing. Warm shivering light from the fire made the shadows jittery. Tents huddled together. The smell of roasting meat made Fin salivate.

Bags of coal and mounds of turf were hidden from the rain beneath old tarpaulins. By the look of it, these people had settled down for the long haul. Plastic tarps tied to trees funnelled rainwater into barrels.

Fin counted sixteen people in all. A young couple stood a little bit apart from everybody else, they looked ill at ease. Fin assumed they arrived not long before he did by the way they still wore their packs.

Ian helped him carry the kayak close to the fire. “You can rest here tonight. Get some heat into you, you look half dead.” He nodded and left without a word of introduction on Fins behalf.

Fin smiled, but before he could say anything a woman walked up to him and winked. “Strip for us.”

Somebody whistled which got a few sly laughs from the gathering. There was no embarrassment to the act. Fin undressed while the prying eyes of strangers inspected him for bites and scratches.

The tentative chatter that was slowly returning died away when they saw the bruises and scars on his withered body. Somebody approached him with a sympathetic can of beer. Fin laughed. “Do I look that bad that you’re willing to offer me a drink?”

“If you weren’t standing I’d suggest a closed casket for the wake,” a woman said.

Fin reached into his kayak. The movement made most of the strangers reach for their weapons. “Sorry,” he said, as he slowly brought out a bottle of whiskey. “Anyone like a drink?”

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