Toy Soldiers (Book 6): Annihilation

by Ford, Devon C.

  None of these bodies leapt up, instead they jogged almost drunkenly with a purpose, all seeming to head in the same direction. That direction led to the village, only Stu lost the desire to warn them, able only to focus on the pain and the unbearable heat burning through his body from the bite to his face.

  He dabbed fingertips at the wound again, finding that it no longer poured with blood but instead had gone sticky as drying glue.

  The heat grew so intense that he fainted, falling back to the platform of the tower and convulsing twice before going still with a final, croaking expulsion of his last breath. His bladder and bowels voided at the same time, soaking the wooden planks of the tower to drip the foul substances downwards.

  When Stu next sat up, he wasn’t Stu but was instead something that used to be him. Used to be a person, a man, a living entity with a soul and a desire to help other people and do his duty. But now… the thing that sat up had only one desire, and the screams from the village piercing the night air fed that desire and forced him to walk off the platform to plummet to the earth.

  The thing that used to be Stu didn’t even flinch at the sharp sounds of his bones breaking, not even when he stood again and furthered the catastrophic nature of the break to make one leg irreversibly shorter than the other as a shard of bone protruded from the bunched-up flesh of his left thigh.

  The thing that used to be Stu looked at it, feeling no connection between what it saw and what it felt, so it continued towards the village, making slow progress as it had to adopt a curious, shambling gait instead of jogging like the others overtaking it.

  It was knocked down, hitting its face hard against the earth and getting up immediately to continue towards the realisation of that desire. It didn’t recognise the one that knocked it down, and even if it had, the part of the brain that harboured resentment and dislike was gone, boiled into uselessness, so it didn’t recognise the thing that used to be Gary running ahead to reach the screams long before it did.

  One hour and eleven minutes after the final bomb slammed the long spike to activate it into the ground, the survivor’s village of Fairlight, so lucky over the previous months since the world fell, was wiped out.

  Those who had successfully hidden and those who hadn’t turned by the time the army of Limas arrived hot on the heels of the newer, far ghastlier type of monster to emerge from the clouds of serum and smoke, became meat for the jogging army.

  That army, fast ones following the even faster ones, spread out over the countryside in all directions heading away from the cliffs which would have done for so many of the original infected, to unleash a new wave of hell on earth.

  SEVEN

  “Sir, I have AWACS on the horn, wishing to speak to you directly on a secure line,” the radio operator said to the naval commander in charge of the room. He nodded, unfazed by the irregular request, and picked up a handset to identify himself.

  A brief conversation ensued which those attempting to eavesdrop on only caught half of.

  “Yes… Repeat that… Yes… Approximate size of the enemy force? …Jesus… Understood, out.”

  Expectant faces stared at the commander, who walked fast from the room, pausing only to inform a lieutenant commander that he had control of the room.

  “I rather suspect,” Palmer junior opined tiredly to his older brother, “that our military background makes us uniquely qualified for this task, don’t you?” The way he spoke made it clear that he was trying to force a smile onto the captain’s face, and even if the jest was weak, it served the purpose and prompted a tiny huff of amusement from Palmer senior.

  Both men wore the beginnings of ragged beards, much the same as every man forming their small huddle of desperate survivors on the remote, and sadly abandoned, island of St Kilda.

  “What would the army be without its lists, eh, Olly?” Julian said as his false and sad smile faded a little. The list in question made for a depressing read in that it detailed the available food reserves found in the meagre storerooms in the subterranean base.

  “We could try the fishing option again?” the lieutenant offered optimistically.

  “We’ve tried that. There isn't a sufficient supply in coastal waters to make the endeavour effective, and going out to deeper water is inviting a rather unpleasant demise at the hands of our American allies. Plus, we don’t have the fuel available to get far enough.”

  The younger of the brothers sagged his shoulders slightly, but his renewed sense of worthiness was indomitable that day, it seemed.

  “I’ll lead a band of volunteers into the island again, see if we can't find any more of those rather hardy sheep?”

  “I believe that may be our only recourse at this point,” Julian Palmer responded, breaking out into a racking, chesty cough that ran away with itself and left him pale and breathless by the time it eventually passed. He sniffed, an unpleasant noise bubbling in his sinuses, and tugged the stiff, woollen blanket tighter around his shoulders to stave off the bitter chill he couldn’t shake.

  “I say,” his brother said insistently, “you really must rest. Allow me to see if we have any of that hot broth still on the go, warm your bones a little, what?” His brother waved a hand dismissively, still so out of breath that he couldn’t speak, but his expression and body language insisting that he would be fine, and that the illness would pass given enough time.

  He was not the only one to be suffering, as so many of them had been rendered useless through sickness that more than one rumour had circulated regarding a kind of variant in the disease. Those rumours were rapidly squashed and reinforced with more than one private conversation between either a soldier or a royal marine with those most vocal about the matter.

  Sickness was a concern, but their greatest risk was that of starvation and the risk posed by the elements. The Outer Hebrides were an inhospitable place at the best of times, but isolated and cut off from any kind of reinforcements or resupply, and given their desperate flight with very little in the way of provisions brought in their haste to escape, the boatload of people were starving.

  “I must admit,” Captain Palmer admitted when he had regained his breath, “to a renewed desire for a leg of lamb.” His younger brother smiled and took his leave, meeting up with the marine lieutenant a short way down the corridor from the room where their senior man coughed and shivered.

  “Is he still unwell?” Lloyd asked the man who had grown to become a friend and contemporary since the tide of opinion had turned on the capabilities and attitude of Palmer junior.

  “Rather worse than he’s letting on I’m afraid,’ Palmer admitted sadly, before shaking himself out of the dark thoughts creeping into his head and smiling at the royal marine officer who, he thought with a little jealousy, wore a beard far better than he did.

  He has the chin for it, Palmer thought in amused self- mockery.

  “How are things?” he asked, bringing the conversation back to military matters.

  “Sentries are rotating every two hours, given the wind chill,” Lloyd answered, sharing the report on their situation with his equal in place of reporting to the captain who needed rest. “I’ve just sent out a group to fetch some more wood, which I know will be green, but it should burn at least.” Palmer nodded, racking his brain for any other combustible fuel the island could offer up that they hadn’t already pilfered. The green wood was an option, albeit a temporary one, as the fires they had in the base were sealed burners that wouldn’t spew cloying smoke into the base at least.

  “As for food,” Lloyd went on, “some of the chaps from Skye reckon there’ll be eggs a plenty on the cliffs, so I’ve attached a few of our boys to go with them.” Palmer nodded but seemed distant in thought.

  “I read something many years ago,’ Palmer said as he squinted in thought and tapped an index finger on his chin, “that these Scottish islands all enjoyed an abundance of natural resources, only their remote locations made gathering such things a more expensive option than purchasing them from fo
reign markets…”

  “You mean oil?” Lloyd asked, “Are we to begin prospecting?” he added with a chuckle to his words.

  “Not oil, old boy, but another kind of black gold.”

  “Ah, I see,” Lloyd answered when he understood. “I’ll spread the word among the civilians, see if any of them know anything about it.”

  “Outstanding,” Palmer answered. “Our food situation will require a permanent solution, of course, but in the meantime are you happy to hold down the fort while I go in search of a lamb supper for the Captain?”

  “Of course, Olly, of course. Although if you’d take my advice?”

  “Naturally, Christopher, naturally…”

  “I believe that our special forces friends might be in need of a little gainful employment,” Lloyd said carefully.

  Palmer accepted the suggestion willingly, genuinely believing his chances of bringing home the bacon—or more accurately lamb—would be greatly increased by employing the finely-honed skills of the two surviving SAS men.

  As they often did in military bases all over the world, and as Palmer would have seen had he served an upcoming tour in Northern Ireland made a non-starter when the world took a hard left, the men of the special air service found themselves a dark corner in which to blatantly flaunt the army’s strict regulations regarding the correct way to store weapons, and generally lounged around wearing non-regulation clothing, the distinct lack of rank insignia easily identifying each man.

  He recalled with mirth someone once mentioning that every SAS soldier bore the rank of ‘mate’ when being addressed on base.

  He found them both on makeshift beds, neither resting through a sense of elitism or laziness but because he knew both men preferred to maintain their safety and security during the long nights as it minimised their interaction with people.

  Both men had taken the loss of their friends, their commanding officer included, badly. As if the brutal severing of personal ties in such a manner wasn’t bad enough, to be part of a small unit accustomed to working together so closely and having that unit halved in a heartbeat had hit them hard.

  Mac, awake on his back as he read by the light of a candle, carefully licked a finger and folded the corner of the page to mark his spot before standing as Palmer knocked at the open door and walked into the room.

  “As you were,” he said, only without any of the entitled edge his orders had once carried. He’d earned the respect of the men and finally figured out how to overcome his fears and lead from the front, but that alone was hardly impressive to the men from Hereford. It was a matter of self-respect that brought Mac to stand and offer a greeting to the young officer.

  Dezzy, who had been snoozing before the Scot’s words had woken him, sat up and immediately clamped a hand onto the Soviet rifle he never let out of his sight.

  “Gentlemen,” Palmer said, “I’m aware you’ve been conducting long hours on duty, but I wondered if either of you was up for a spot of hunting?”

  “What’s in season?” Mac asked.

  “Lamb,” Palmer said, holding up his hands to ward off any negative responses. “I’m aware it’s hardly sporting but I believe that needs must.”

  “No argument from us,” Dezzy said as he rose and lifted the rifle, which hadn’t been fired since he’d taken possession of it from the late Smiffy, “I’d eat the scabby end of a donkey right now.”

  Palmer chose not to include any others on their inland foray, mostly because he feared the honesty that he so desperately sought would be less forthcoming in the company of strangers.

  The opinion he wanted to ask for, unfettered by manners or obedience to rank, was offered freely.

  “You know we can't stay here, don’t you, Lieutenant?” Mac asked after half an hour of walking over the rough ground.

  “I rather suspect we can’t, Mac, but I see very little in the way of options.”

  “Load everyone back into the boat and head east again,” Dezzy offered from a dozen paces ahead of them.

  “Back towards the Screechers?” Palmer asked, not dismissively but rather to see how the other men planned to tackle that problem.

  “Screechers we can handle,” Mac said, “not counting those new bastards that got… well I’m saying we head back, maybe try Stornoway. There was maybe five thousand people there before, and who knows if they even got infected to begin with?”

  “The reports said that contact with the Islands was lost,” Palmer reminded him, “and five thousand is rather a large force of opposition should we encounter—”

  Palmer froze when Dezzy did, an instinct born of necessity during the most recent period of his life. He relaxed when he saw that the source of the man’s interest was wrapped tightly inside a natural wool coat and was cropping the stiff grass fifty paces away.

  “What would you prefer, sir,” Mac asked in a whisper as Dez settled in to take the shot. “Starve and freeze to death here, get sunk by trying to go west or run the risk of catching some good luck by going back?”

  “There are other risks far beyond the reach of good luck,” Palmer answered in a whisper, not wanting to interfere with Dezzy’s vital task by speaking loudly.

  “Life’s a risk, Lieutenant,” Mac responded in the same low voice. “Crossing the road, getting on a plane, smoking; all these things could kill you easy enough. Yeah, there might be an outbreak but with such a small population, the risk versus reward stakes are… favourable.” He added the last word with a shrug as if he’d made his point.

  EIGHT

  Larsen gave Daniels the correct frequencies to make contact with the Norwegian armed forces. He dutifully turned the dials and waited patiently as she hailed anyone listening on the other end in her native tongue.

  Three hours into the exercise, one which he began to suspect was a pointless one, an opinion he kept sensibly to himself, her repeated words earned a response of crackling static and a moment of voice traffic.

  She froze, her eyes wider than car headlights on full beam, and slowly pressed the transmit button to repeat the call. A voice came back, distorted and unintelligible to Daniels, but the tone of shock and surprise were undeniably a response. He stayed silent, listening as she tried to force a conversation, with neither party able to fully understand the other.

  “Haakonsvern?” he heard Larsen repeat, almost desperate for the confirmation that took too long to come. She returned the radio handset with signing off, looking at Daniels with a smile that bordered on being a mischievous smirk.

  “Come on, Charlie,” she said as she climbed out of the Warrior, “we need to find a map.”

  “Look, do I tell you how to jump out of a plane or shoot stuff? No. So don’t ask for my bloody opinion and tell me I’m wrong when it doesn’t fit in with what you want to believe, okay?” Mike Xavier said petulantly, stabbing a finger down onto the map to make his point, but actually distracting some of the people involved in the discussion by where his finger had landed.

  “You are not understanding me,’ Larsen said patiently, “I am asking of you if this is possible, and what we need to make it so.”

  “And I’m telling you, love, this is a bloody terrible idea.”

  “It may be terrible,” Johnson said, earning a frown from Larsen who he placated by adding, “in your opinion. But is it possible?”

  “Possible? In theory I suppose so, yeah, but why take the risk?”

  Johnson looked at him expectantly until the bearded Liverpudlian sighed in defeat and traced a finger around the top of the British Isles displayed on the large-scale map spread out on the big table.

  “Finding a boat should be easy enough,” he said. “This whole stretch is filled with commercial ports and I’d guess a decent sized fishing boat would be the best option?” His eyes looked up questioningly at JP, tall and brooding in his customary silence, to receive a nod of agreement from the Frenchman.

  “Because the Yanks have a bloody hard-on for sinking anything trying to head west out to sea, it’s best
if we stick to the shoreline anyway and go north, which’ll take you pretty much right past where you lost contact with your other army buddies…”

  Johnson took his turn to shoot a questioning glance, this time at Charlie Daniels who seemed to fight back the urge to pack a bag there and then. His answer was clear – he’d vote in favour of going that way just to see if the rest of the squadron still lived. Remembering that it wasn’t just his own people who had gone to the Scottish island, Johnson’s eyes sought out the royal marine sergeant’s.

  “If there’s a chance our boys are still fighting, it’s our job to get back to them,” Hampton said simply. “I see no harm in a diversion along the way, and any decision we need to make can be made then.” Johnson nodded his agreement. In truth he would prefer to join up with the others on Skye, but a part of him knew he’d be forced back into a life of constant service instead of being free to enjoy the newly acquired elements of his current existence. Shaking that thought away as a minor irrelevance in the grand scheme of things, and a selfish one at that, he spoke out loud to make sure they were all on the same page.

  “The end goal is to get out of Britain in one piece, and if uninfected countries are seeking some kind of asylum, then our hope is to be on that particular train, agreed?” Murmurs of agreement rippled around the room, which was packed with all their survivors from the various groups that formed their very small commune. The atmosphere prickled with a little coldness as many were unaccustomed and unhappy with the military bearing when it came to their ability to make choices.