Toy Soldiers Box Set | Books 1-6

by Ford, Devon C.

  “Our job,” he explained, “is to patrol and ensure that Her Majesty’s peace is kept. We will move down to the training camp and treat it as a deployed forward base. We will keep round the clock defences in place, and we will conduct patrols of the towns and villages. Any questions, Sir?” he finished.

  Surprising him then, the younger man removed the look of half-bored amusement from his face and stood up.

  “Thank you, Sarn’t Major,” he said formally, “what about our supply and equipment situation?”

  Johnson, as surprised as he was, did not hesitate and nor did he need to refer to any notes.

  “Full complement of vehicles,” he began, “sixteen Fox armoured vehicles, each with a 30mm canno—”

  “I’m aware of our standard armaments, thank you,” he interrupted, although with less arrogance than before.

  “We also have four Spartans, two Sultans and access to dozens of Bedfords, not to mention the Saxons and whatever else is at the camp,” he finished, listing off the troop transport and fighting vehicles at their immediate disposal, as well as the many available larger transport trucks and whatever training vehicles were left behind when the regulars shipped out.

  “Ammunition and consumables?”

  “More than we can shake a stick at,” Johnson answered.

  “And contact with other squadrons?” Palmer asked.

  “Working on that,” Johnson answered, “Lance-Corporals Daniels and Mander are building up a network now, as they have been for the past hour. They’ll have got hold of anyone listening by now.”

  “Very good,” Palmer intoned thoughtfully, leaning precariously back towards annoying the more experienced man, “I want to get more information about the situation in the city before we move out. Are we able to make contact with any military units closer to the action?”

  The way he said action made Johnson grimace inside. It was like the lustful, youthful way that combat virgins spoke of being in the thick of things, when they had never even held a weapon since their last training weekend.

  “Already in hand,” Johnson answered, “RNAS Yeovilton are putting up a pair of their training Hawks as long-range reconnaissance in,” he looked at his watch, “a little under twenty minutes. We should know more then.”

  “Outstanding work by all, then,” Palmer said gleefully, yet still made his words come across as sarcastic and derisive of others’ efforts. “Now, who else from the senior ranks has answered the call to arms?”

  Johnson stared the young man down until he could keep silent no longer.

  “You are the only officer in attendance, Second Lieutenant,” he said, intentionally adding the man’s very junior rank as a reminder that he should harbour no intentions of taking charge and giving orders.

  “Sergeant Major,” Palmer said with a clear tone of annoyance in his voice, “I’m starting to suspect that you aren’t the slightest bit pleased to see me…”

  Johnson now believed that the time had come to explain the facts of life to the man.

  “Sir,” he said, as kindly as he could manage, “for the sake of clarity, until such time as a Captain or the Major arrives, I’d like to make it entirely clear that this,” he stabbed one finger onto the desk to produce a metallic sounding report, “is,” another tap, “my squadron,” he finished with a final bang on the desk. Palmer smiled, and Johnson did not feel placated by the gesture one little bit.

  “Well, for the sake of good order and pretending for just one blasted minute that Her Majesty bestowed on me a commission, can we agree to include the lowly Second Lieutenant in your hierarchy, even if only to maintain the sense of propriety that the men expect?”

  Johnson shot him a look that warned him not to interfere but agreed with a curt nod and a gesture of his chin to follow him back out into the drill hall. Striding straight back to the raised platform of ammunition crates, Johnson stepped up and bawled for silence.

  Silence descended immediately, and all eyes turned to him.

  “Right then,” he called out, “Four Troop, as I said, you have been allocated to the other Sabre Troops. Report to your new sergeants. HQ and Admin troops, you now report to Sergeant Croft. Troop sergeants on me after this briefing.” He paused to clear his thoughts before dropping the news on them. “The capital has been lost to a virus that experts say is like rabies,” he paused to let that sink in, casting a fatherly eye over his audience, “and riots have torn the place apart. The Household Cavalry boys have rolled out to stop the riots, and we are back to our original role as home defence. We will occupy the training camp, consolidate and defend, and conduct fighting patrols to quell any incidents.” He paused to scan the room once more and waited for the faces to show concern. They didn’t. Most were local boys who would quietly ensure that their families and neighbours would get themselves somewhere safe.

  “Alright then,” Johnson said loudly, “let’s work hard to get away early. Fall out.”

  Stepping down and walking away with Palmer at his flank, he strode into the room which was being used as a hastily-erected temporary communications suite, just in time to hear Lance Corporal Mander speaking into his radio handset.

  “Understood, RNAS Yeovilton, November-Three-Zero out,” he said before he carefully put down the handset and removed his heavy headphones. Reaching out to rest them gently on the desk, he suddenly dropped them and flew from his seat to bounce off the Sergeant Major and drop to his knees just in time to grab a metal bin to void the contents of his stomach into.

  “Corporal Mander?” Johnson asked, perplexed at the unexpected behaviour.

  “The Navy pilots,” he said, pausing to spit before he tried to stand and retched again instead, “the Navy pilots have reported back to base,” he said as he stood and wiped his mouth on a sleeve.

  “And?” Johnson prompted him.

  “And they said that everyone is walking the streets in a daze, attacking everything that moves. Except each other, apparently, but Sarn’t Major, the armoured column,” he paused, his eyes pleading, “they said they were overrun near Southampton…” Mander’s eyes bulged again and he threw himself back toward the bin to finish what he had started.

  Johnson turned to Daniels and didn’t need to ask the question. The other Lance Corporal picked up the headset and microphone to call the Naval Air Station back and seek clarification. Johnson listened to the one-sided exchange, wearing a stoically blank look on his weathered face, his eyes stinging and his stomach doing small flips in response to the smell of Mander’s vomit, unable to hear the important parts of the conversation but watching intently as the other man’s face dropped in cold horror at what he was being told.

  “Sarn’t Major,” he said weakly, “it’s true. The armour has been overrun and the disease has spread well outside London. They said…” he looked down and swallowed, making Johnson think that they might need another bin in the office before long, “they said that the dead are rising and attacking people.”

  “Oh, good Lord,” Palmer said in a higher-pitched voice than normal, “that can’t be right. The Navy boys lost their bottle, eh?” he tried. Johnson ignored him, and instead of responding, he strode back out to the drill hall where a gaggle of sergeants awaited him.

  “Change of plan,” he said with savage purpose, “Andy?”

  “Behind you,” came a gruff voice belonging to the Squadron Quarter Master Sergeant, Andrew Rochefort. Johnson turned to face him, nodding companionably to the older, shorter man who kept the records of everything they had been or would be issued.

  “Every available driver we have takes a vehicle each and we load it with every last supply at this location before we move to the camp. Every bullet, every mortar, every piece of kit, everything down to the last can of bloody beans. Clear?”

  They understood him.

  “And tell the men to call their families,” he said with next to no hesitation, “tell them the disease has spread out of London, and that they should get themselves somewhere safe.”


  He hesitated again, half turning away before he swung back around.

  “No,” he said to the small gathering of senior non-commissioned officers, “tell them all to get to the base and bring as much of their own supplies as they can. They can be housed there safely, and we can protect them. Go, now,” he said, seeing them all scurry away to bawl out their units and gather their men to them.

  “Are you sure that was the right thing to do, old boy?” Palmer’s greasy voice wafted over his shoulder, making him turn around to speak in a low voice to the young man.

  “How long will the unit stay together when their loved ones are out in the trenches whilst we’re safe on camp?” he asked, “How many men will desert to see if their wife or their children or their parents are okay?” Palmer’s face finally registered some understanding.

  “And,” Johnson added icily, “I’m not your old boy.”

  NINE

  Peter’s experience in the shop was instantly marked as different from the previous times he had been there. There was no music playing. There were no fluorescent lights showing inside their opaque plastic cases which the flies managed to somehow access but never escape. His mother had already scurried her way into the store without pausing to notice anything was wrong with the scene, but her young son was less driven by the need to collect more alcohol and cigarettes than she was.

  He watched as she shrieked again in her grating voice, trying to get the attention of the shopkeeper, in vain as nobody appeared to be there. It took her only a few precious seconds to assimilate the facts and weigh up the benefits versus the risks before she began stealing.

  Peter heard the noises of bottles clinking together and the almost furious mutterings of an addict not getting their own way easily. His feelings of unease were heightened to almost snapping point when her shrill voice called his name and made him jump clear off the ground. His feet moving without conscious decision, he reported for duty and rounded an aisle to see her with her arms full of bottles and packets and her eyes wide in expectation at him.

  “Well?” she snarled, somehow conveying that she was disappointed by his stupidity yet again, “Get a bloody bag or something.” Peter fled, running to the small counter with its barred window that overlooked the forecourt and the single fuel pump standing forlornly, as though the process of someone needing petrol would resurrect it once more to life. Reaching over behind the counter, his hand touched the cool softness of the slab of plastic carrier bags ready to be peeled away by the cashier when needed. Fumbling the first few attempts, Peter licked his thumb and tried again, rewarded instantly with two bags which he struggled to open as he returned to his mother. She told him to hold the bags open, placing one inside the other as she reverently placed the precious bottles inside with more care than she showed to her own offspring. When the bag was full enough to complement the other bottles taken from the pub, but not so full that the greed of an extra litre jeopardised the safety of the first bottles, she abandoned the hunt for alcohol and turned her attention to the cabinet behind the cash desk.

  Heading straight for her preferred brand, easily discerned amongst the wall of colour as one of the only packets which were predominantly black, she helped herself to every single packet on display, before hesitating and doing the same with another brand; obviously her second choice. Peter, eager to help and anxious that not helping would attract unwanted attention, licked his thumb again and opened more bags for her to use.

  Seeing her greedily making relays to the car as she momentarily left him inside on his own, Peter did the first immoral thing he had ever consciously, willingly done. On the second time she left him alone for those few precious seconds of solitude, his eyes rested on the shiny, brown packaging of a Marathon bar. His gaze darted up to her receding back as she approached their car, then back to the chocolate.

  It called to him. Nestled between the dark blue of the packaging on the Wispa bars and the red, white and blue of the longer but very chewy Curly Wurly bars on the other side. With almost no hesitation, he reached out and closed his fingers around the first Marathon and picked it up. Just as the bell on the front door erupted into horribly loud life to signal the return of his mother.

  She looked at him, unaware of what he was doing but utterly convinced that he was up to no good given the look on his face, and she drew back a hand in preparation to slap him around the face. Noticing the chocolate in his hands just before she began the return swing towards him, she stopped, relaxed her shoulders, and dropped her hand without warning.

  “You could’ve just said,” she admonished him, not for stealing but for looking guilty about it. “Take what you want,” and with that, she returned to her relay of ferrying stolen alcohol and cigarettes back to their car.

  Peter didn’t move.

  He still couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t being tricked, but he reminded himself that everything to have happened in the last week had been more than a little abnormal. Taking her permission literally, he licked his thumb again and began to fill a few of the thin blue plastic carrier bags with all the things he had never had the courage to ask for. He took pot noodles after seeing the television advertisement for them. He took Cadbury’s chocolate, Marathon and Mars bars. He took Caramacs, Star Bars, Toffos, an entire box of Opal Fruits, Yorkies, Sherbert Dips, and filled the three bags entirely from just the shelves below the counter. He took more bags and stuffed them with Monster Munch crisps, Nik Naks, Frazzles, Space Invaders and Chipsticks until those bags were full too. Putting his lighter haul with his earlier heavy one, he turned to get yet more bags and froze as he heard a noise he dreaded.

  Outside, the engine of their car was starting.

  He threw himself to the door, stopping just in time to snatch his bags up, and dropping one full of chocolate and sweets but not daring to risk the time it would take to retrieve them. Flying from the shop in desperation he arrived at the car in time to see his mother with a lit cigarette in her right hand as she replaced the cap on a bottle with her left.

  The cruel smirk of evil she wore on seeing his panic and distress reminded him harshly of the cards he had been dealt in his short life, and he went to climb into the passenger side before his eyes rested on the seat covered in the bags he had helped her fill. Quickly deciding that she would deem the contents of those bags to be far more important to her than he was, he shuffled sideways and climbed in the back seat. Keeping a wary eye on her as she drove back to the farm, he ate a Marathon in slow silence, relishing every bite of the salty caramel and peanuts inside.

  Arriving back at the abandoned farm shortly afterwards and having seen no sign of life on the journey back, Peter spilled from the car to loiter out of range of his mother, who had already begun to metamorphose into her old self as the booze coursed its way into her bloodstream. She had become morose and aggressive once more. No doubt now that she was able to focus on anything other than her need to get more alcohol and stop her hands from shaking uncontrollably, she recalled the facts.

  Those facts, put simply as they were in Peter’s mind, were that something terrible had happened in London, his sister and Father had gone and not returned, people were acting weird and had abandoned their farm and, worst of all for him, he was now trapped in their idyllic corner of rural nowhere with his mother, who had descended into an almost catatonic state of self-pity. Almost catatonic, that was, as she still managed to automatically refill her glass with neat alcohol, and chain smoke as she stared holes through the blank screen of the television.

  Peter, through seeking solitude and safety from her, took his stolen haul and slipped out of the back door. The dog followed him, not out of any affection or loyalty, but because he was going out via the back door and that was the way to the farm. It was a clever dog, as almost all collies were, especially when they worked on farms, but she displayed no fondness for the young boy and made it clear that her place in life was above his own. Now, for the lack of anything better to do and the subtle promise of food from the r
ustling bags, it followed him into the chill afternoon.

  No sooner had they left via the rear of the house and slipped through the barrier of evergreen trees that stood as the demarcation line between residence and farm than three shambling figures made their way slowly up the lane from the side least often used.

  They had been in a field of waist-high maize, stumbling aimlessly around and attracted by the noise that each other was making. When they moved closer to investigate those noises, no smells inspired their hunger or forced their aggressive natures to surface, so they bumped along almost sightlessly in a trio, looking socially awkward and only friends by default as no others would give them the time of day.

  New sounds other than those they made amongst themselves pricked the edges of their automated senses, and made their faces turn as one to the road. Their feet answered the unconscious call to move towards the sounds and, as one, they shuffled towards the twin barriers of a light hedge and a shallow drainage ditch. That was all that separated them from the rough, neglected tarmac with a strip of insistent grass growing straight up through the middle. One, dressed in the pale blue shirt of a convenience shop franchise, which betrayed the reason for the shop being empty, was the first to fall through the hedge and pitch cumbersomely into the ditch. It did not reach out like a normal person would; there was no instinctive flinch reaction to break its own fall and protect the brain, as humans had evolved to do. Instead, it was merely reaching out ahead of it, as they did to compensate for their reduced visual acuity. That outstretched arm made direct contact in a downward motion, stiffly absorbing the full force of the fall, and a loud crack echoed along the lane and was contained by the tunnel of greenery which enclosed the overgrown passage. The shoulder of that arm disfigured horribly, the lower arm shortened in an instant and a bright shaft of splintered white bone appeared through his mottled, olive skin just before the elbow.