Inside the walls, nobody wore clothing to protect them from the virus.
Brian lined up a shot and took half a zombie’s head off. Last night, he had spent a good thirty minutes loading bullets, the webbing he now wore resplendent with five full magazines of explosive ammunition. The military veterans here had advised that, with the reported difficulty in killing the undead, the supply of explosive rounds that Clay had in stock should be used only for the defence of the mansion, and only given to select personnel. Brian, being one of Clay’s lieutenants was thus blessed with bullets that turned the average head into a gaping chasm.
The man next to Brian lost his cool. He slipped his gun onto full auto, spraying the bodies of the zombies as he roared like some deranged demon. When his gun clicked empty, the man stood panting, his shots having had little or no effect. To kill a zombie, there was little point in shooting anything but the head. A large hand descended on the man’s shoulder, and he turned in shock to find Brian standing right beside him.
“Slow it down,” Brian said, leaning his head in so the man could better hear him. He could tell the foot soldier was running on adrenaline and fright, which was hampering his ability. “Take deep breaths. Body shots don’t work on these things. Aim for the head and conserve your ammunition.” Wide-eyed, Clay’s man looked at Brian and seemed to shake himself out of the killing trance he had descended into.
“You good?” Brian asked, a fresh roar of gunfire causing him to wince slightly.
“Yeah, shit,” the minion said. He was one of the younger members of Clay’s crew, still relatively unblooded. Brain made a note in his mind to get the guy some time with two or three of the military veterans. Brian had suggested that to Clay nearly two years ago, but Clay surprisingly hadn’t deemed it necessary, stating that those who had the training would be used for the work that required those with that training. It was all hands on ship now, they didn’t have the luxury of being selective.
Brian stepped away slightly, lined up another shot, the bullet slightly off target, taking out a zombie’s neck. It was as good as a headshot, the body being virtually decapitated. More zombies came at the gate, some trying to climb now rather than force their way through which seemed to surprise everyone. None of them got more than waist height off the ground before they were brought down.
Weren’t the undead supposed to be mindless killing machines?
“This is no good,” Brian said to himself. By the side of the main gate, a watchtower had been erected using boards and scaffolding poles, giving anyone up there a clear view of the other side of the wall. Brian climbed its ladder now, the tower shaking slightly which he found unnerving. It didn’t topple though, and Brian joined the man at the top who was there to operate a fifty calibre machine gun.
“There’s a lot of them,” the man said. He was a veteran from the paratroopers, one of the many Clay had rescued from the destitution of the streets. The former soldier wasn’t firing, realising early on that the gate would hold without his intervention. “But we can hold them. If they come in significant numbers though, we might have a problem.”
To the front of Clay’s mansion was a thin, one lane road and fields that led down to further human habitation. They weren’t in a secluded position, a dual carriageway within five minutes’ drive, but they were far away from the main bulk of Manchester’s population which was likely predominantly zombified. Across the field, dozens of undead now charged at them, drawn to the sound of gunfire, coagulating at a single defensible spot.
“Scary fuckers aren’t they,” the man with Brian said.
“You sure we can hold them?” Brian asked. The veteran nodded. Looking around, Brian’s attention was caught by the balcony outside Clay’s bedroom. Clay stood there, watching the battle for his fortress, not in any way helping. Clay rarely engaged directly in criminal operations, and it would have raised his esteem with the men if Clay had come down and helped with the mansion’s defence. If Brian could see him, others could too; Clay giving the impression he was some high lord watching from the safety of his castle keep.
That was not going to be good for morale, even under those who seemed to have an unquestioning loyalty towards Clay. It was true that Clay had done the right thing by putting the defence of his mansion into the hands of those who knew what they were doing, but he should at least be getting down and dirty with his men.
The gate was getting crowded now. It was fortunate that it opened inwards, the bodies piling up would have blocked it otherwise. As it was, somebody would ultimately need to deal with the corpses. There were nearly twenty killed, another twenty clamouring over the fallen. If the bodies were left, it would just attract all manner of vermin as well as causing a right stink. Dealing with the downed dead was not something Brian would be volunteering for. No doubt though that he would be tasked with picking those volunteers and a bribe of extra rations would need to be made.
Some people would be allowed the luxury of getting drunk tonight.
Now that he had witnessed them able to climb, Brian was fearful that the undead would scale the walls. Clay was big on security for himself and his assets, so although the wall was made of brick, the external surface had been rendered to make it smooth. There were no gaps or crevices for fingers or toes to find purchase, and any nearby trees had long since been cut down. That had ironically been the cause of the only time the police had ever visited Clay’s estate. One of the trees cut down had been under a protection order, some mindless drone at the council causing all manner of fuss over its illegal felling. Clay, through his solicitor, had just claimed ignorance as to why the tree was no longer standing. The council official was still in a coma, the victim of a “random” and brutal home invasion that would never be linked to Clay.
For a human to get across the wall, they would need a ladder or rope, and there would be a ten feet drop from the top, most of the ground on the inside of the wall lined with sharp points that would penetrate any shoe landing on them. The ornate spikes that decorated the wall had been hardened by razor wire, although Brian didn’t think there was any point in that. Would a zombie care if its flesh was sliced open?
For now, the ring of surveillance cameras would keep watch for anything that approached the outer wall. There were other towers scattered around the perimeter to help with that as well. At the side of Brian, a computer monitor had been set up to allow the feeds from the external cameras to be wirelessly monitored. As long as the electricity held out, there would be no need to rely on the solar array in the back lawn or the rechargeable batteries that could power the whole house when fully charged. The two large generators Clay had installed were the ultimate backup.
Clay had seemingly thought of everything except the effects his own ego was likely to have on the men. The bulk of them would stay loyal to Clay until close to the end, but Brian knew some were already voicing dissent. Quietly, not to the greater group, but the fractures were there for all to see. Brian had needed to have a quiet word with one or two individuals to just express the wisdom of not flapping their lips too much. Clay had already killed one man for apparent disloyalty, there was nothing that would stop him killing more if he got the idea into his head.
There was a thud from below. Leaning over the edge of the tower, Brian saw a thin zombie hitting the wall with its fists. At first, he didn’t understand what the zombie was doing, it couldn’t hope to break its way through. But then the zombie briefly lifted itself off the ground before falling back down. Swinging his gun around, Brian shot a round through the top of its head. It had been trying to climb the wall by creating its own holes, likely pulverising the fingers and hands in the process. It wouldn’t be able to grip into the holes it constructed, but there was little doubt the next zombie would.
Next to the computer monitor, a walkie talkie was strapped to the scaffolding poles by Velcro. Brian ripped it loose so he could speak into it.
“To the guys manning the towers, watch for zombies on the exterior walls. I’ve just
witnessed one try and climb their way up. If you don’t spot them and pick them off, we may have an incursion.”
“Thinning out,” the veteran next to Brian said. Brian could see what he meant, the zombies running in the fields now mere stragglers, some slower than the others. The first wave had hit against their defences and had been repelled. But there would be more.
How long could they keep this up?
24.08.19
Preston, UK
Dawson looked at a land that made him weep with its beauty. He considered tears alien to him, and yet here they flowed freely, surprised with how unashamed he was with this apparent weakness.
He was already on his horse when he manifested in a place that felt more real to him than the green and unpleasant land he had spent all his life in. From an early age, he had never felt settled, as if somehow he didn’t belong to the streets and fields that had denied him so much. Now he knew why. This wasteland had always been his home. What to many would be conceived as a harsh and desecrated landscape, was to him the very essence of perfection. For the first time ever, Dawson felt like he could call a place home.
Here in the desert, he would not be denied that which he desired. To feel the skulls of his enemies slowly giving way as they fractured under his relentless torment, the gauntlets he wore digging deep into the flesh, taking the skeleton just to the breaking point before relenting so that he could repeat the torment a thousand times. A death here would be far from quick, even with the demands that would soon be put on his attention. He was here to kill, to purge the wilderness of those who would oppose the new order. The order of the virus, the way the living world was now supposed to be.
The pale horse took a step forward, careful not to plunge down the ridge that overlooked the huge chasm down below. That was where the immune were, their attempts at flight futile, maybe even reckless. Only some of the distant specks would be his to end for they were only vulnerable when their minds came here with sleep. Awake, the immune existed merely as unfathomable spectres whose amorphous form could escape even the mightiest of his blows. Dawson was happy to wait for them, the killing tools that dangled from the horse’s saddle enough to put the fear of God into even the bravest of hearts. The spiked club would be his favourite, he already knew that, its weight and its presence matching his own immense physique. It was so easy to break bones and shatter a victim’s spine while keeping those he tormented alive.
So large was he here that he feared for the wellbeing of the beast that carried him, his rage at the immune a mirror reflection for the compassion he had for the horse that bore his astonishing burden. It did not buckle under him, and moved as if unencumbered, perhaps possessing a strength greater than Dawson himself. Things were often not as they seemed in this realm of the forgotten. There was no understanding as to where the horse came from, and quite frankly, he didn’t care.
His only weakness was the inability to control how long he slept. Despite the fondness he held for where he found himself, Dawson knew that this was not the real. Sooner or later, the demands of his body would drag him back to the waking realm. There he would be vulnerable, his mind now filled with the strategy of self-protection. Even now, he could feel the stillness coming, the strength of the wind diminishing. Looking at the metal of the armour that covered him, he saw the thinness of it as it began to lose it solidity. In moments he would be gone from here, a wisp of his shape left in his place.
Dawson’s eyes opened. Smith was there, looking down on him, any hostility he held towards the Colonel now obsolete. Only he wasn’t a Colonel anymore. Rank implied some sort of superiority, and there was none of that amongst brothers.
Dawson was unsurprised to find his restraints removed. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cartwright still sleeping. Was sleep even the right word? They weren’t asleep in the desert, their wakefulness complete as they witnessed the desolation around them.
“Brother,” Smith said, smiling. All the anger Dawson had held, the resentment to the way the good life had been denied him was gone now. There was no self-pity, not with what he now understood. Everything he had experienced, every fight he had been in, every rejection from relatives who had become fearful of his size and his temper…all had been for one singular purpose. He had been forged into this being that could now be used to remove a scurrilous curse from the face of the Earth.
“Brother?” Dawson answered. “I never thought I would hear those words.”
“We await one more,” Smith stated, briefly looking at the body of Cartwright.
“No,” Dawson said. “There is a fifth. The one who forms and who will shape us.” Dawson’s words sounded strange to him. His mind felt lucid, free of the oppressive violence that had overshadowed it. His head was clear for the first time since he could remember.
“I have felt it too,” Smith agreed. And so had The Voice. Deep inside Smith’s mind, The Voice was finally pleased with the way things were turning out. Such a shame that The Voice was soon to be consumed by disappointment.
24.08.19
Allied Maritime Command, Northwood, UK
MARCOM, the central command of all NATO maritime forces had been made the headquarters for all remaining UK military forces, and already it was under siege. The undead had found it, and were hurling themselves at the fences despite the withering machine gun fire that was being rained into them.
The reasons this site was chosen were numerous. It had an advanced communications array, allowing transmission across the planet as well as with the nuclear submarines that had all been put to sea at the start of the crisis. It was surrounded by rings of razor wire topped fences, the inner fence surrounding the entrance to a bunker complex guarded by Gurkhas and blast-proof doors. It would need an army to get inside, and that was exactly what came for it.
It was considered small by American standards, the bunker at Northwood giving those who retreated inside the protection they needed. The normal staff of fifteen now swelled to sixty, mostly consisting of high ranking generals. Despite Northwood being a maritime facility, most of the senior naval personnel were on board ships, having opted to find safety from the zombie hordes at sea.
Normally home to two thousand people, the number of soldiers that had retreated here had tripled that number. It just wasn’t enough, though.
The Gurkhas and other military personnel guarding the perimeter did their best to not give an inch, and initially, they held off the attack. Any zombie that managed to scale the outer fence either got snagged on the razor wire on the top or was blown apart by machine guns. The fences however, were not designed for this kind of assault, and on several parts of the perimeter, their integrity began to fail over time. They just weren’t high enough or strong enough, the boxes of ammunition the soldiers relied upon quickly becoming depleted. The outer layer of defences soon became breached.
The Gurkhas fought with everything they had, sacrificing themselves in vicious hand to hand combat, using their bayonets and their Kukri to inflict grievous injuries on the undead. But even the acclaimed fighting prowess of the Gurkhas wasn’t any sort of match for the stronger and more durable zombies. Once past the outer wire, the defenders quickly became overwhelmed, each soldier who fell being added to the ranks of the damned.
The undead couldn’t penetrate the bunker complex however, the people inside already vetted for Lazarus by the newly acquired viral test kits. The virus had initially made significant inroads into the command and control hierarchy, over fifty people of those stationed at Northwood found to be contaminated by the virus. But with the testing, everyone secured below ground was Lazarus free. Protected by thick concrete and an air filtration system that could keep out nuclear fallout, those in the bunker considered themselves to be safe from the zombie menace.
The one thing the zombies could do was to stop anyone leaving. So, trapped inside, what was left of the British Army’s General Staff saw the situation they were in. They had food and water, but that wouldn’t last forever. And whilst they c
ould communicate with British forces across the country, the actual number of those forces was dwindling, whole regiments becoming fractured and ineffective. Contact with London, Manchester and Birmingham had been lost, the satellite images showing whole herds of undead forming at the centres of those cities.
The use of nuclear weapons was still being considered, although several of the military top brass had already rejected the notion. What was the point? They could destroy their own cities, but there was no telling how many zombies would survive the blasts. Already huge groups could be seen spreading out into the countryside, and it was considered highly likely that the undead didn’t give a damn about nuclear fallout. There were still enough belligerent minds who felt that ordering the submarines to unleash their payloads would somehow help the chaos and death that ruled Britain’s streets.
There was still hope, cities like Leeds still reporting in. But how long before they fell as well? Although none of them said it, the surviving generals were generally of the opinion that the fight against the undead on the British mainland had been lost. All they could do now was try and salvage what they could. Raining nukes down would just make the environment more difficult for those defenders left. Nuking Beijing had done nothing to stop the spread of the infection or the undead, several large groupings of zombies, totalling into the millions, already spreading out towards the surrounding cities. Why did anyone think raining atomic fire down British cities would be any different? It was thus deemed a plan of last resort, nobody really believing nuclear fire would do anything to stop the zombie menace.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 3): The Fall Page 27
