The Fence Zombie Post Apocalyptic Military Survival Thrillers

The infected want to kill him. Jason Harper needs to survive and find his wife. He doesn't trust his companion. Former Royal Air Force Regiment Gunner Jason Harper witnesses a foreign jet fly over his Aberdeenshire home. It is spilling a strange yellow smoke. Minutes later, his wife, Pippa, telephones him, shouting that she needs him. They then get cut off. He sets straight out, unprepared for the nightmare that unfolds during his journey. Everyone seems to want to kill him.

Along the way, he pairs up with fellow survivor Imogen. But she enjoys killing the living dead far too much. Will she kill Jason in her blood thirst? Or will she hinder his journey through this zombie filled dystopian landscape to find his pregnant wife?



The Fence is the first in this series of post-apocalyptic military survival thrillers from the torturous mind of British horror and science fiction novel writer C.G. Buswell.


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Here's the opening chapter:

The intercom gave a crackle as it burst into life and a firm, familiar voice from Royal Air Force Brize Norton stated clearly, 'Blackdog Master Controller, Acknowledge.'
Flight Lieutenant Logan Sinclair of the Quick Reaction Alert team at RAF Lossiemouth threw down his newspaper and sprang to the control panel at his left and pushed the reply button, 'QRA acknowledged.'
'Scramble, scramble, scramble!'
Logan pressed the button again, 'QRA acknowledged.' He then hit the large red button above the intercom and sprinted from the room as the klaxon sounded noisily around the Squadron rooms. The irregular thumps of brown-booted feet striking the laminated flooring soon echoed around the narrow corridor as over a dozen people ran. Without breaking his run, Logan tapped the Squadron plaque as he passed it for luck. He never failed to perform this ritual, even on his most recent posting to Southern Romania, where he and his crew had helped defend the airspace against potential Russian attacks from the Black Sea.
Logan reached the exit first and thrust open the door, knowing that his crew was right behind him. He also knew that they'd soon stop the door from closing and would be hot on his heels. The important thing was for him to be the first to the dull-grey hangar where his gear was stowed atop the ladder which led to his Eurofighter Typhoon. Each second counted.
Colin, the other fighter jet pilot, followed him out. Neither knew what their mission was, nor the co-ordinates. They would have these fed through once they were airborne and ready to defend the UK airspace, probably from another Russian spy plane, chancing its luck.
Immediately behind the two pilots were their Senior Air Craftsman and Craftswoman, Kenny and Yvonne, whose roles were to see out and see in the two planes. Matching them, stride for stride, were the aircraft maintenance mechanics, who would immediately trace any faults should they occur. Both were confident that each jet was in flying condition and armed with Meteor air-to-air and Brimstone air-to-surface missiles and cannon armaments.
Running behind them were several members of the fire crew, dressed in their fire-retardant brown uniforms and white helmets. They headed straight for their fire engine, near to the runway where, any second now, two multi-million-pound fighter jets would roar down.
Each man and woman of the Squadron had an immediate spike in adrenaline, ready to play their part in this well-oiled team. Though they'd done this many times, for real and in practice, each felt their hearts beating faster and were short of breath in anticipation of action and from the running.
Logan wedged himself through the hangar doors, having beat their automatic opening. He didn't look back to ensure there would be room for the swift exit of his plane. He knew that two of the SACs would ensure they were fully opened. He ran to the wheeled ladder, confident that its locks would be on. He thudded up the metal stairs and reached for his inflation system that would feed valuable oxygen to him and pressurise his body against the G-force he would soon experience as his aircraft thundered into the Moray skies and beyond. He shrugged it over his green flight suit and then eased himself into his plane and began donning his helmet. He initiated his launch sequence as he plugged in his pressure suit.
Beneath him, one of the SAC's was wheeling back his ladder as the others watched on as the canopies of both jets closed on the pilots, sealing them in. They then stood back at their safe distances.
Logan radio checked to Colin and then felt the power of his engines as he pressed various parts of the glass panel at his front.
Then there were a series of almighty explosions around the airbase as several concealed bombs were triggered. The hangar appeared to lift into the air as the hidden incendiary devices imploded against armaments, causing rounds to fire off against the hangar and those in their paths. As each missile detonated, it blew upwards, still attached to pieces of the fuselage. This triggered the seat jettison systems, blowing each pilot against their canopy, shattering their spine and most bones in their bodies, killing them instantly, before finally expelling them out of the disintegrating aircraft. A large piece of spinning metalwork carved its way into Logan's exposed neck, slicing instantly through, severing his head. His helmet preserved most of his skull and this was thrown through the air and finally landed on the debris-scattered concrete floor. It spun round and round several times, as if macabrely looking at the damage to his colleagues, before coming to rest, revealing the shattered jaw beneath the glass visor which had teasingly stayed intact.
Kenny, gasping for breath like a floundering fish, looked down at his chest and saw large pieces of metalwork that had punctured his heart and lungs. He didn't have time to wonder if he could trust the Russian spy to deliver the second part of the payment to his wife or worry about the terminal cancer diagnosis he'd kept to himself. He, like several of his colleagues who had trusted him blindly, was dead within minutes of the explosions.
Silence fell around the site of the hangar and the airbase for several stunned seconds, save for the gentle flap of the withered orange weather sock by the debris-scattered runway as the armaments had finally played out, like a ghastly fireworks display, against the sounds of the detonations. Then the screaming began.


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