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 OTHER WORKS

BY SHANE CARROW

The End Times zombie apocalypse series

End Times I: Rise of the Undead
End Times II: The Wasteland
End Times III: Blood and Salt
End Times IV: Destroyer of Worlds
End Times V: Kingdom of Hell
End Times VI: Brother’s Keeper

The Avery-Carter series

Vampire on the Orient Express
Werewolf on the Western Front
 Table of Contents
CHAPTER I: KILOMETRE ZERO
CHAPTER II: WINTER ON THE WESTERN FRONT
CHAPTER III: BAY THE MOON
CHAPTER IV: CROW’S NEST
CHAPTER V: HONOUR AND FIDELITY
CHAPTER VI: OLD FRIENDS
CHAPTER VII: MYTHS AND LEGENDS
CHAPTER VIII: EGALITE
CHAPTER IX: FRATERNITE
CHAPTER X: LIBERTE
CHAPTER XI: THE LAST POST
CHAPTER XII: HOUR COME ROUND AT LAST
CHAPTER XIII: ASSAULT ON THE CHATEAU DE MEZIRE
CHAPTER XIV: THE BETTER PART OF VALOUR
CHAPTER XV: AN ENGLISHMAN, AN AMERICAN AND A GERMAN
CHAPTER XVI: MISERY OF DAWN
CHAPTER XVII: NEUTRAL SOIL
CHAPTER XVIII: MAN ABOUT TOWN
CHAPTER XIX: THE NATURE OF THE BEAST
CHAPTER XX: THE DARK MOUNTAIN
CHAPTER XXI: MY BLOODY LIFE AWAY
CHAPTER XII: CHRISTMAS IN BIEL
CHAPTER XXIII: NIGHT CALLER
CHAPTER XXIV: PAPERS, PLEASE
CHAPTER XXV: THE VERY ERROR OF THE MOON
CHAPTER XXVI: KNIGHT ERRANT
CHAPTER XXVII: THE FOX AND THE HOUND
CHAPTER XXVIII: SILENT NIGHT
EPILOGUE: INTER ARMA CARITAS
 CHAPTER I:

KILOMETRE ZERO

L ieutenant Lucas Avery of the British Army stood on a fire-step in

the French trenches of Kilometre Zero and pressed the binoculars to
his eyes. There was a weather front coming in from the east, but for
now the skies above were clear, lit up by a full moon and a thousand
blazing stars. He was at an observation post in the forward trench, a
place no officer would normally venture unless a major offensive was
scheduled. But the world was quiet here.
“Amazing,” he breathed to the soldiers and adjutants around him.
“Simply amazing.”
Before them was the half-mile scar of no man’s land—something
he instinctively thought of as a scar, but which here was an
unbroken mess of rain-washed dirt, covered in undisturbed weeds
and even small saplings. Beyond that were the German trenches;
the veiled glow of campfires, cigarette lights, hints of electric bulbs
as somebody opened the door of a concrete bunker.
It was almost utterly silent. No crack of sniper fire, no machine
guns, no whistle or thud of artillery. Avery almost fancied he could
hear snatches of conversation and laughter from the German
soldiers, carried across the rift on the wind.
He turned to his right, facing south towards Switzerland, another
unremarkable patch of moonlit hills and trees. “You expected the
Alps, hmm?” commented his handler from French intelligence, a
fellow lieutenant named Felix Leroux. “When I was sent here I
expected the Alps.”
“I did,” Avery admitted.
 “Those are much further south. Here, just farms and forest. You
see the lights of that village? To the left, there—maybe you can see
the flag. That is the border.”
It took Avery a few moments in the gloom, but eventually he
found it. A huge Swiss flag marking the bunker on their side of the
border, where the Western Front met neutral territory; a white cross
against a red background, rippling in the moonlight. He couldn’t see
it now, but he knew there must be a long and careful fortification of
barbed wire, trenches and artillery emplacements lining that
southern frontier. Or northern frontier, from the perspective of the
Swiss; the last stop before the cataclysmic barbarism that had split
Europe asunder. Switzerland was neutral but she was not toothless.
Avery knew, too, there must be Swiss soldiers looking back at him
across the moonlit landscape, soldiers in bunkers and pillboxes with
their own expensive binoculars held up to their eyes; mittens and
hoods and fur cloaks guarding against the winter cold. French and
German and Italian Swiss. The only country in all the Continent
bound not by language or race, but by national identity; not a
nation-state but a multi-cultural confederacy. And this was where it
ended: seven hundred kilometres of war-torn front, thousands of
men ripped apart by metal every single day, two great powers
clashing against each other, from the North Sea all the way down to
the border. Here, at Kilometre Zero.
“I haven’t known quiet like this since the desert,” Avery
whispered, passing the binoculars back to an adjutant and stepping
down onto the duckboards. “Thank you for showing me.”
Lieutenant Leroux shrugged. “Go north to the Vosges and you will
see trouble again. The Germans made a major push just yesterday.
Here… more trouble than it’s worth, hmm? Nobody wants to upset
the neighbours. Nothing can be gained here compared to what
would be lost. Nothing that cannot be gained elsewhere.”
They departed the forward trenches, moving back into the
relatively busy network that would return them to the village of
Seppois-le-Bas, where Leroux had a car waiting. Relative indeed:
there were a handful of soldiers here and there playing cards or
warming their hands by fires, but to Avery’s war-weary eyes it
looked alarmingly undermanned. He supposed the opposite numbers
on the German side were similarly low. “It must be a plush posting.”
“For those on their last tours,” Leroux said. “Or those wounded
but still able to serve. Or,” and he smirked, “those who know the
right people. What? Don’t look at me like that. I expect the Germans
do it also. And it is just a few kilometres.”
Avery couldn’t blame them. The whole front was a
slaughterhouse; what did it matter if for a handful of miles, in the
interests of diplomacy, both the French and Germans implicitly
agreed to keep things quiet? Did he really believe some great
breakthrough might occur here—something that might tip the
balance of the war one way or the other? Or was it just a thousand
fewer deaths each month on the reaper’s abacus?
They emerged from the rear trenches and walked the half-mile to
Seppois-le-Bas, where a staff car was waiting in the shadows outside
the post office. The village was deserted, the houses long
abandoned—even on a quiet front, nobody wanted to live this close
—and the driver flicked away a cigarette as they approached. A few
moments later they were humming along the road through the dark
countryside, back towards the division headquarters at the Chateau
de Mezire.
“You got to see something not many people see, anyway,” Leroux
said, lighting a cigarette and then leaning across with his match to
light Avery’s.
“Quite,” the Englishman said. “Though I suppose everybody’s
seeing something not many people see these days. One way or
another.”
The Frenchman snorted. “This war is the event of a lifetime. Of a
century. Everybody will have a story and they will all sound the
same: mud and blood and misery. But Kilometre Zero, that is
something unusual. The front where the war stood still.”
Avery reflected on Leroux’s position. Being posted to this quiet
sector on the Swiss border might be infuriating for a straight military
man, but for an intelligence officer—right on a tripartite international
border—it was probably just fine. He said nothing.
 “Do you think you’ll stay at Amiens for the rest of the war?”
Leroux asked.
“I don’t know,” Avery said. “If you’d asked me six months ago I
would’ve told you I’d happily serve anywhere for king and country.
But a few months of that front… God. I wish they’d send me back to
Paris. I miss Paris.”
“I hate Paris,” Leroux commented indifferently, tapping his
cigarette ash into the tray.
“Where are you from?”
“Lyon.”
“Typical,” Avery chuckled.
Leroux smiled back. “Perhaps they will send you back to the
Levant, or to Egypt. It cannot be so bad, really?”
“It’s all politics.”
Leroux exhaled a fog of tobacco smoke and grinned like a
Cheshire cat. “O-ho? Matters of the heart, or so I heard.”
Avery stiffened in his seat and turned to stare at him. “What on
earth are you talking about?”
Leroux frowned. “Calm down. The rumour is that you had an
affair with your CO’s woman, that’s all. God knows I’ve done it.”
The Englishman relaxed slightly, but the convivial atmosphere had
evaporated. He looked out the window at the impenetrable black
and grey landscape of moonlit Alsace scrolling past, and took a half-
hearted puff of his cigarette. “Don’t believe everything you hear,
lieutenant.”
“Ce n’est pas grave,” Leroux said. “Really, Lucas, I’m sorry. I
forget you people get so upset about things like that. We are
French! You must forgive me. Come on. You must drink with me
back at the chateau. It’s not every night I get to see an old friend,
come on, Lucas, please…”
Avery stared out the window. Friend was pushing it—he’d met
Felix Leroux perhaps half a dozen times at dinner parties and
gatherings in Paris, years ago, before the war, when he’d been
working for the Foreign Office. He did like the man, and it really was
nice to see a familiar face after all these years of gruesome
geopolitical bloodshed. But Leroux’s thoughtless comment had
reignited not just the familiar old panic but a sense of jagged loss
which lay heavy on his heart every hour of the day, only occasionally
pushed away by something that genuinely captured his attention—
like the eerie silence of Kilometre Zero.
“I thought the French were supposed to know the meaning of
discretion,” he said, interrupting Leroux’s apologies. “Especially
French intelligence officers.”
Leroux shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Forget it, friend.”
“I’ll try,” Avery said.
Their conversation moved on to other topics, as the car wound its
way along the frosty strips of bitumen cutting through the Alsatian
countryside, under the light of the full moon. Eventually, some ten
miles from the front, they arrived at the place the French officers of
Kilometre Zero called home.
The headquarters of the French Army’s 38th Division had, very
early in the war, settled upon the Chateau de Mezire: an 18th century
mansion with twenty acres of tended gardens, sixteen bedrooms,
some rather sumptuous bathrooms and an extensive wine cellar, a
safe distance behind the point where the front line had eventually
settled. It was an ancient country home which, since it was situated
on land which had started off the war as German territory, had
probably been commandeered from some rich Alsatian ritter without
a second thought in those heady days in the summer of 1914. Not
that second thoughts had ever bothered the French military when it
came to claiming chateaux from their own side either, further north,
during the Battle of the Frontiers. The brass did like their luxuries,
and in a time of war everybody was expected to pitch in, no matter
how much they might loudly protest after retreating to their pieds-a-
terre in Paris.
Avery found he couldn’t really fault them that, sitting by the
ornamental pond halfway down the estate grounds, wrapped in furs
and with his feet propped up by a firepit. He certainly would have
fought for this place. Leroux had wandered back up to the chateau
to fetch a second bottle of wine, and Avery was quite happy to be
left alone for a moment, looking at the frost patterns on the surface
of the water, the stark white stars above, the ash settling on his legs
and his shoulders. His uniform would smell of woodsmoke tomorrow,
which he liked. He associated the smell with hunting and camping
trips from his youth. A winter smell. Winter was no fun on the front,
he imagined, but he’d been in the desert for two years. Baking hot
days and freezing cold nights and barely a seasonal variation all
through the year. Not like here. He hadn’t wanted to come back in
the first place, but it was precisely because he hadn’t wanted to
come back that he found himself feeling suddenly optimistic. France
had always felt as much a home to him as England, and he felt
nostalgic. A homecoming was never entirely bad: familiar smells,
familiar places, familiar sounds. The French tongue everywhere on
his ears again. Even if the bureau sent him elsewhere after Amiens,
so what? He could handle it. He was thirty-three years old: old
enough to be wise, young enough still to handle whatever life might
throw at him. He felt excited, for the first time in a long time. Being
somewhat drunk certainly helped.
Leroux returned from the big house with a fresh bottle tucked
under his arm. “I would’ve thought you’d cleared the cellar out by
now,” Avery said.
“We did,” Leroux winked. “I have to get deliveries in. This is a ‘07
pinot noir from Chiroubles.”
“I suppose vignerons get special dispensation,” Avery said.
“Immunity from conscription.”
“They do.”
“Really? I was joking.”
“I don’t know,” Leroux said, twisting the cork out from the bottle.
“How the fuck should I know?”
“No wonder everybody speaks so highly of the French intelligence
service.”
“Do you know which occupations are exempt in Britain?” Leroux
asked, pouring him a glass.
“No,” Avery admitted.
“Exactly. I can tell you which occupations are exempt in Germany.
I can tell you their numbers, for the summer gone and the upcoming
year. I can tell you age demographics, experience, corps numbers,
where they’re likely to push. I can tell you what the officers are
thinking and I can tell you what the public is thinking. Whether the
young vignerons in France are exempt from service, I don’t care,” he
said, lifting his glass and admiring the colour in the firelight. “Let the
old farts make the wine. They’re better at it.”
Avery said nothing. The logs in the firepit cracked and split, and
the breeze shifted slightly to send a few specks of hot ash settling
on his shoulders, which he brushed away.
“I’m sorry about what I said in the car,” Leroux said, looking over
at him. “If that upset you. I didn’t mean anything by it, you see? In
France… you know, we are different. People here like to brag about
it. I know your people are more private, but I forget. That is my
problem. My mistake. I should have said nothing. I am very sorry,
Lucas.”
Few men would have apologised; even fewer would have looked
him in the eye while apologising. Which served to remind Avery why
he’d always liked Leroux in the first place. “It’s nothing,” he said. He
was about to add don’t mention it before remembering that this
ultimate expression of forgiveness in English would translate as a
rudely aggressive order in French. “Please—all is forgiven.” He had a
moment to contemplate the differences between those two phrases
and what they revealed about English and French culture before
Leroux was clinking his glass and they were sipping at more wine.
“I am sorry we cannot be inside,” Leroux commented. “No good
for conversation, at this hour.” It was only eleven o’clock, but while
both intelligence agents were used to late nights in their line of
work, the other officers of the chateau were clearly accustomed to
early and uninterrupted bedtimes; the place had already been silent
when they’d returned from Avery’s sightseeing trip to the front. “Out
here, in the summer, is much nicer. Grasshoppers, all the birds…
leaves and flowers. Very nice.” Leroux yawned, and refilled his glass.
“You are famous for your gardens in England, yes? Nicer than here?”
“I couldn’t say, out of season,” Avery said.
Leroux chuckled. “Very diplomatic.”
They worked their way through the bottle, chattering tipsily about
the various merits of France as opposed to Britain, ranging from
geographical (the Scottish Highlands had an earthy humbleness
which the Alps lacked, Avery asserted) to the historical (the
Napoleonic conquest of Europe was a far greater relative
accomplishment than Britain’s naval domination of lesser countries,
Leroux insisted) to the literary and poetical (on this, Leroux had little
interest, and merely took Avery’s word for it that Shakespeare and
Tennyson outweighed anything France had ever produced). “I will
concede this, though,” Avery said. “No doubt in my mind. Paris is a
finer city than London.”
Leroux made a snorting noise. “Paris is the worst of our cities.”
Avery smiled. “Well, take your pick. Is Lyon better than
Birmingham?”
Leroux almost spat his wine out. “You would compare that place
to Lyon? Your grimy little city of—what is it they do? Textiles?”
“That’s Manchester. Birmingham is manufacturing. What does
Lyon do?”
Leroux looked smug. “Banking.”
Avery sighed, swirled his wine, looked out over the pond. “Terrible
industry to base a city around. Who wants a city full of bankers?
London would never let that happen, at least.”
“You know I am not Lyonnaix?”
“You told me you were.”
“No, I went to school there. But my family is from Provence. Near
Avignon.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“Lyon is a marvellous city. But when I retire I will go home to
Provence.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not like cities. Not even small cities, like Lyon. I
prefer the country. And my family is there, of course.”
“You have children?”
“No, no—I am not married. But I miss my parents, my brother, my
sisters. My aunts and uncles and cousins. Do not you?”
Avery felt suddenly melancholy, running his thoughts over his
extended family. He despised his father, who despised him in turn;
his stepmother pretended he didn’t exist; and his relations with his
brothers could be summed up as perfunctorily polite. His sole
remaining brother, he still had to remind himself; Major Edward
Avery had been killed in action at Ypres more than a year ago. His
other brother, Francis, a Royal Navy lieutenant, had informed him of
Edward’s passing in a blunt telegram to Cairo.
“My sister, I suppose,” Avery said uneasily. Emily had been the
only member of the family he’d ever got along with, but even now
they rarely exchanged letters more than once every few months.
“But not really. I’d sooner go back to Paris than England. I suppose
that’s another matter in which France excels. Convivial family
relations.”
“Oh, that is a stereotype,” Leroux said. “I’ve known many
unhappy families. And I am sure there are many happy English
families. It is just a matter of luck, really.” He smiled, and went to
refill Avery’s glass. “At least you can choose your friends.”
Avery clapped a hand over the top of his glass. “I think I may
have had enough, Felix. Thank you anyway. In fact, I think I’ll turn
in.” He drained the last of his glass and stuck his hand out. “Thank
you again.”
“Ce n’est pas grave,” Leroux said, shaking his hand but making no
move to get up—clearly he intended to finish the bottle himself.
“Really, it is good to have somebody I can talk to out here. The army
officers, they are so boring. I shall look you up when I am next in
Paris.”
“If I’m there,” Avery said morosely.
“Well, that’s why it’s called looking up,” Leroux said cheerfully, the
last two words in English.
Avery walked back through the dark towards the chateau. He had
lately been in the Nile Delta, and night-time to him, even in
December , was supposed to mean humid warmth and a chorus of
frogs and insects. This utter silence and biting cold took him further
back than that, to the desert at night. Nights he’d prefer to forget.
He had a bed waiting for him up a staircase on the second floor of
the chateau. An empty bed, with no other soul to warm it. Empty
and alone.
 That bed is more than a million men will be getting tonight all the
way up this front, his inner Stoic reminded him. Quit your whingeing.
And it was true. Other people were worse off than him. Far worse
off. So what right did he have to complain?
Avery thought about Tom’s face, his hair, his strange body of
contrast; the deeply tanned face and arms, the pale legs and torso.
The press of their bodies against each other. It wasn’t fair. He
missed him and he hated him, for the hand Avery suspected Tom
had played in having him sent back to Europe. Where was the Stoic
now?
I’m right here, the Stoic said, reminding you that plenty of men
much younger than you have suffered horrible deaths these past
two years without even getting the chance to fall in love. You
could’ve been shot in the head the moment you stepped off the train
in Constantinople in 1914 and you still would’ve lived a fuller life
than any of those poor boys.
And how is that supposed to stop me thinking about him? Avery
said.
It’s not, the Stoic replied. It’s supposed to remind you of how
lucky you were to have him. And everything else you’ve had. And
still have, and will continue to have, since you’re lucky enough to
see this war out in the intelligence corps. You’re going to live to a
ripe-old age and die peacefully on a sun lounger back home at the
manor in the year 1975 while you watch a fit young gardener trim
the hedge in July sunlight with his shirt off. So stop whining.
Avery sighed. His Stoic, like himself, had a good imagination.
Don’t worry about it, his inner Epicurean said. Just go upstairs
and have a good sleep in that nice, comfy bed.
That at least was something Avery could agree with. But he
walked slowly through the gardens—dead and frozen, but peaceful
nonetheless—and enjoyed the smell of the woodsmoke drifting from
the firepit. The stars here were nowhere near as bright or stark as
they’d been out in the deserts of the Levant, but they still attracted
his attention, especially on a still and calm night when he was
somewhat—all right, very—drunk.
 Avery paused at the rear portico of the chateau, on this deathly
silent night, staring up at the stars and the fat, full moon. It was
half-past ten. After a moment he tottered upstairs, pulled his boots
off, and fell asleep in his warm, comfortable bed.
 CHAPTER II:

WINTER ON THE WESTERN

FRONT

A few miles away from where Lieutenant Lucas Avery of the

British Army was asleep in a soft, warm bed with a belly full of
expensive wine, Legionnaire Sam Carter of the French Foreign
Legion was squatting by a fallen pine tree in a sad, sorry patch of
forest amid the rolling farmlands of Alsace, trying and failing to light
a cigarette. It was past midnight now and the stars were blotted out
by heavy cloud, drifting across no man’s land from Bavaria. A cold
rain had begun to fall, and to Carter’s patrol—all three of them well-
versed in Alsatian weather patterns by now—it seemed likely it
would only get heavier.
After some time he managed to stoke the cigarette to life, cupped
in his hands beneath the shelter of the pine log and his oilskin cape.
He managed a few puffs and then it was gone again. Carter sighed,
tucking it back into his pocket. The rain drummed down on the hood
of his cape and splattered into the mud all around him. “What’s the
time?” he asked Corporal O’Halloran.
The Australian, Carter’s senior by quite a few years, squinted at
his wristwatch. “Half twelve.”
“Christ,” Carter said. He glanced over at Legionnaire Bonelli. “How
you feeling, kid?”
The Italian teenager’s head was deeply encased in the hood of his
raincoat, invisible to the world around him. “I wish the Germans
would kill me.”
 “Oh, it’s not that bad,” Carter said. Privately, he agreed that it
was. The first week of December, just a taste of the winter to come,
and still it was cold enough that every breath felt like inhaling
poison. Carter had grown up in the Rocky Mountains and had
fancied he could handle Europe’s childish notion of what constituted
“cold,” but he’d been spent too many years away: in the merchant
marine under the Caribbean sun, in his first spell in the Legion in
Morocco, in the sweltering heat of India. He’d acclimatised to a sort
of permanent summer along the Tropic of Cancer and already the
wet dank of France, even in autumn, had become a daily misery. It
was 1916, but Carter had come to the war late, and this would be
his first winter.
The rain pattered down on his hood, on the bark of the fallen
tree, on the mud all around them. Bonelli was from Calabria and had
never been north of Naples before joining the Legion; he was just as
miserable as Carter. O’Halloran, infuriatingly, was unfazed by it.
“I thought Australia was s’posed to be hot,” Carter said, teeth
chattering. “How come this don’t bother you none?”
“I’m from Tasmania,” O’Halloran said, crouched in the choicest
position beneath the log, which as the ranking man he considered
his due. “Little town called Strahan, on Macquarie Harbour. Rains
three hundred days of the year.” He pulled his cape tighter and
wiped rainwater from his eyes. “But fair enough, I wasn’t in the
habit of going out in the middle of the night and sitting in it.”
The legionnaires squatted under the fallen tree for a while longer,
hoping the worst of the rain band would soon pass by. Carter rolled
a few more ineffectual cigarettes, more to occupy his time than
because he thought he’d be able to light one. Bonelli hummed a little
Italian ditty under his breath. The needles of the pine trees above
them swayed in the rain-lashed wind.
After some time—it was now almost one o’clock, according to the
wristwatch O’Halloran had taken from a dead Prussian officer at
Verdun—the rain eased. “Let’s move,” the corporal said, and the
sodden soldiers unfolded their cramped legs and began trudging
through the forest again, boots squelching with every step. A brisk
wind soon cleared the skies, the ragged remaining clouds scudding
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