Toy Soldiers Box Set | Books 1-6

by Ford, Devon C.

  “Good morning,” he exclaimed from the hatch, in an accent designed to mimic any number of officers he had soldiered under, “we’re conducting reconnaissance of the area,” he explained without introduction, “and are collecting numbers and dispositions of survivors.”

  His arrogance served him well, as Michaels had explained that people would long for someone in authority to arrive and give them instructions. That assumed authority, which he had to admit to himself that he enjoyed, instantly put the men at ease and prompted the emergence of women and a few children from the front door of the farmhouse. Nevin asked them questions, receiving freely given answers in the naïve belief that the man represented the armed forces instead of a band of pirates. He had climbed out of the scout car, shaking hands with the men and giving broad smiles to the others, who relaxed the more he spoke.

  When he had gleaned as much information as his orders had dictated, hearing about how proud they were to still be producing their own milk and meat and vegetables, and still smiling as he did it, he produced the revolver and shot the oldest man holding a gun through the fleshy part of his lower leg.

  He felt nothing as he did it. His smile didn’t falter or fade as he showed no remorse for his actions and the taking of a life. He’d become numb to death and pain and suffering, seeing it as a natural course of action as much as breathing was, because this was now the way of the world for him.

  The other armed men reacted amidst the screams and shouts of their friends, until a brief, deafening rip of thirty-calibre bullets tore the air and silenced them all. Despite himself and the knowledge of what would happen, Nevin still flinched instinctively from the noise, until he straightened once more in the renewed silence, to smile at the terrified huddle of men, women and children.

  The turret on the scout car rotated audibly, swinging down to aim at the group in unspoken threat.

  “Now listen to me,” Nevin snarled over the sobs, “you lot will give up food for us to take away, and we expect the same every month. That,” he said, pointing the barrel of his revolver at the old man who was bleeding and crying onto the frosted stones of the courtyard amidst the desperate attention of the women, “is your one and only warning about what will happen if you don’t do as you are told.”

  He stayed silent, staring them down and knowing that Michaels would be watching and listening from his position behind the controls of the heavy machine gun. The sounds of multiple engines behind him as the rest of their convoy approached up the track, filled him with yet more confidence in his power over people.

  “We don’t want to kill all of you, and we don’t want to drive you off. All we want is a bit of what you have, and we’ll keep you safe in return. Now,” he said as he indicated the shot man again, “strap that up and keep it clean. It’ll heal in time.”

  And that was effectively their game. They ran a criminal protection racket. Their process and tactics had evolved with the arrival of Nevin and the heavy gun he’d brought with him, and Michaels was grateful for the addition of another trained man to provide some spine to the collection of men and women who followed him, because a life spent taking when contrasted to a life spent providing was the easier route to take. He could easily have roamed the landscape in the Warrior he’d taken, but his preference was to retain that for defence of a permanent position, because that made him feel more secure. He hid his insecurities well, as outwardly he was every inch the cold, hard man he projected.

  They loaded the cars with milk, meat, vegetables and eggs, taking much more than the remaining survivors could afford to give and still live as comfortably as they had done, and they took it all back to the Hilltop, where the approach road was overlooked by the half-buried hulk of the Warrior light tank that Michaels had emplaced when he had arrived there. Nevin abandoned the uniform, dropping it on the floor, knowing that the lesser people would pick it up and fold it ready for their next rouse. Then, not to waste the daylight, he dressed in a leather coat over jeans and boots to go back out.

  Michaels’ reason for subduing the farm had been to prevent them from seeing his people passing by on the road below them, as there were resources in the next town that needed more firepower to take. He rode with Nevin, the controls of the machine gun feeling good in his hands as they rolled ahead of the soft-skinned and vulnerable vehicles behind.

  “We couldn’t take this place before,” he said into the headset he wore that linked him to Nevin and allowed them to communicate over the din of the engine, “not without the risk of losing too many people anyway. There was some kind of community aid station set up in the town, and there are probably a hundred of the things in between us and what we want.”

  “And what do we want?” Nevin asked out of curiosity but lacking the interest to know the minutia of a plan.

  “Food,” Michaels said, “there’s a Bejam’s there which still has lights on, so the freezers should still be working too.”

  “You mean Iceland?” Nevin asked, knowing that the shop had been bought out and rebranded, and choosing to allow his natural tendency of nit picking to emerge.

  “Whatever,” Michaels said, uninterested, “there’s a gun shop and a tool place there as well. I want those.”

  Nevin didn’t answer. He didn’t overly care, as he was just happy to be served and fed and to force others to bend to his will. They retraced their route and rolled into the outskirts of the town, passing by the unmarked entrance leading up to the farm, where doubtless the people there would be tending to their loved one and reeling from the after effects of Nevin’s actions.

  “Stop by that junction,” Michaels instructed, steadying himself as Nevin slowed sharply, “that building there, red double-doors.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get out and open them,” Michaels instructed him blankly. Nevin’s face set in a look of anger and disgust, deciding against upsetting the man who would be aiming a destructive gun at his back, and he popped open the hatch to climb out. He ran towards the building, eyes scanning wildly left and right as he went, reaching the doors and steadying himself with a few breaths before spinning the handles and wrenching them both open with a grunt and preparing for an onslaught of dead rushing him.

  None came, surprising him until the stench hit him in the face with as much recalled force as Johnson’s large fist. Regaining his senses, he ran hard back for the safety of the Ferret and scrambled inside to pull down the hatch, just as the gun opened up over his head in short, controlled bursts which spoke of a calmness and discipline few possessed.

  FIVE

  Not wanting to waste the day, given that it was just cold and not raining or hailing or snowing, as it had been intermittently throughout the week, Johnson removed his right boot and applied a bandage with difficulty to the aggravated joint. As he was struggling to do it, Astrid walked in and tutted loudly.

  “This is why men cannot wrap the gifts,” she announced cryptically, snapping her fingers and reaching out for the bandage. Johnson abandoned the task, leaning back on the sofa with a huff as he handed it over.

  “You made a twist of it? How?” she asked him as she knelt on the expensive rug at his feet and rolled the bandage back up to begin again.

  “Slipped on the ice,” he admitted, leaving out the relevant information that the simple accident would almost certainly have spelled disaster, had it not been for the ten-year-old boy saving his life.

  “You should be more careful,” Astrid admonished him gently, her tone indicating that she might have already known or guessed the facts that he hadn’t stated, “especially at your age.”

  “My age?” Johnson asked, carefully enunciating the words with an edge of warning.

  “Yes,” she said, unperturbed by his tone, “I simply mean that you do not heal as quickly as you would have done when you were younger. A sprain of the ankle could make the differences of life and death, but luckily this is not swollen.”

  “Thanks,” Johnson said, feeling the practised hands of the woman wrapping th
e bandage far more effectively around his sore joint, but further discussion was cut off by Buffs walking into the room and shrugging into his equipment.

  “You good to go?” he asked, eyeing the treatment happening in their living room.

  “I am,” Johnson answered with finality.

  “Good. Me, you, Astrid and Craig,” he said, detailing their team to go out. It made sense, as Hampton was still struggling to put his full weight on the knee that he had dislocated in the helicopter crash. Kimberley was healed and mobile, but being unfamiliar with firearms, she wasn’t the obvious choice to take, plus any more bodies on their foray would reduce the quantity of supplies they could return with and increase the risk of discovery.

  “Can I come?” asked a small voice from the open-plan kitchen behind them, forcing Johnson to twist to see Peter’s hopeful expression. He took in the look on his face, turning back to Buffs in the hope that he would dash the boy’s hopes.

  “I don’t take up much room,” he added, melting the hearts of the hard men just a little.

  “I know, lad,” Buffs said softly, “but with Bill still slow as a snail, who is here to keep the village safe? Who’s going to protect Kimberley and Amber?”

  Peter, his hopes of joining the elite dashed in such a way as to elevate his mood, gave a resolved smile and nodded, accepting the refusal with grace and purpose, as he accepted the promotion solemnly.

  “You look after this place,” Johnson added, “and we’ll see if we can bring you something good back, shall we?”

  “Like what?” Peter asked, half in hope and half in suspicion, as he was woefully unaccustomed to adults showing him any kindness.

  “What would you like? Some video cassettes? Books?” Astrid asked, fixing the bandage with a strip of black electrical tape taken from one of her pouches, and standing to allow Johnson the room to put his boot back on and lace it tightly.

  Peter opened his mouth to speak but stopped as a small hand tugged at his sleeve. He bent down to Amber, knowing that she wouldn’t speak out loud in front of everyone, and listened as she whispered in his ear insistently.

  He smiled, straightened, and answered.

  “Some new videos would be nice,” he said, “and Amber wants a Kinder Surprise.”

  They took their van, the most appropriate vehicle found in the village for their needs, and carefully replaced the barrier of cars after they had moved outside their barricades. There were three seats across the front, and Johnson drove with Astrid beside him leaning her legs awkwardly into Bufford’s to allow the SSM room to manipulate the gear stick without intruding on her intimately. Enfield rode in the back, uncomplaining, as riding in the front would have meant separating him from his rifle, because there just wouldn’t have been enough space for both him and his gun.

  Hampton had offered an opinion about that very subject, saying the loss of a long rifle in the man’s hands was akin to severing a favoured male appendage. But it was also a tactical choice to sit in the back, as Enfield was the only one of them not to be carrying a suppressed weapon, should they need to get out and lay down fire in a hurry.

  They drove carefully and slowly, aware of the treacherous road conditions, to keep their noise profile as low as possible, as was their standard operating procedure. They passed through small knots of buildings, some larger and others smaller than their own meagre stronghold, and past the combined post office and local shop that they had already emptied of anything useable. Twenty-five minutes of slow progress led them to the outer edge of a small town which bore the tell-tale signs of a swarm passing through. Only Johnson and Bufford had encountered the mass-gatherings of dead when they swarmed in impossible numbers, and neither wanted the experience repeated in a hurry. The shattered glass, the smears of gore and the shunted vehicles indicating an unstoppable tide of flesh passing through to clear the area of humanity like a plague, all indicated that something very unwelcome had befallen the town.

  With the engine killed and ticking in the frosty silence, the four of them quietly got out and pushed the doors shut with as little sound as humanly possible. They fanned out, their drills wordless and smooth now as the four had learned to operate together more closely through practice, as Bufford led them towards their secondary objective, which was the closer of the two.

  Approaching the glass frontage of the gun shop, they saw cracks spider-webbing from half a dozen impacts at head height, where they imagined the undead skulls of zombies had banged hard into the shop windows, which stood intact before the metal mesh grids inside. The door was unlocked, the shop largely untouched and showing no signs of having been ransacked. Gaps on the displays showed where guns had been removed in a hurry, but the locked cabinets of rifles remained intact.

  Buffs and Astrid moved through the store, heading around the dark wooden counter and into the back, from where they returned almost instantly to declare the place empty. It only had a back storeroom filled with gun cabinets and a large lock-box like a chest freezer, a single toilet and a kitchen area, where no Screechers could be hidden. Grabbing three large game bags originally designed to hold the carcasses of animals from hunting trips, they set to work taking the heavy-load cartridges from the lock-box, which had yielded easily to Bufford’s crowbar. Astrid had turned to protect the front door as the other three began searching the shop.

  “Any more rounds for your rifle?” Buffs asked Enfield, who looked up to meet his gaze.

  “Three-oh-eights at a pinch,” he said with a slight sneer at the thought of using inferior tools for his trade, “but they won’t be as accurate over distance.”

  Johnson, who was stacking boxes of twelve-bore cartridges on the counter, the boxes bearing the lowest numbers to hand to indicate heavier shot, didn’t think that accuracy over the distances their sniper was considering meant a great deal. He looked at him to voice that opinion, but saw the man heading across the shop floor towards a rack of rifles, with his head canted to the side as he zeroed in on the inspection.

  Reaching up, Enfield lifted down a large gun with a dark wood stock that looked almost black. The huge optic seated over the barrel seemed fitting for the size of it, and he paused in his task to watch the quiet man turn it over in his hands and assess it almost lovingly. He hefted it, feeling the weight and balance and evidently finding it to his approval, then ran his hands tenderly over the bolt action a few times to find it smooth and well-machined. Dropping out the small magazine and reseating it, he nodded, looking around for a padded slip and placing the gun inside. Johnson went to turn back to his task, but clearly Enfield was not finished. Reaching up again, he took down a small, light weapon with bluey-grey metal on the barrel and trigger housing, with a deep, rich walnut stock. He pulled back the charging handle, making the clicking metallic sounds of a lighter, higher note than the more serious weapon he had held previously, and ran his hands over it in much the same way, before announcing over his shoulder what he needed.

  “Two-two rimfire rounds,” he said with purpose as he snapped his fingers excitedly, “as many as you can find.”

  Buffs paused in his search, meeting Johnson’s eye before both men shrugged and began searching the lock-box for the requested bullets.

  After ten minutes in the shop, piling up everything they wanted near Astrid by the door, Enfield was equipped with what he considered to be a barely suitable replacement for his Accuracy International when the military ammunition finally ran out, as well as a new personal weapon which seemed woefully small in comparison.

  The small Ruger rifle, light and short-barrelled like a toy gun at a fairground sported a fat protrusion at the end of its length which none of them needed an explanation for. The sound baffle would doubtless reduce the noise of any shot, but they all knew that nothing was truly silent when it fired a bullet, as their own MP5s demonstrated with the snapping, chattering coughs they emitted. What Enfield knew but the others had yet to fathom was that the smaller calibre rifle wouldn’t produce the tell-tale crack of high-velocity r
ounds as their other guns would. To him, it was the perfect Screecher killer.

  Beside those chosen guns were box upon box of bullets and empty, spare magazines, next to the bags of shotgun cartridges capable of decapitating a person with ease. They helped themselves to other items after the priority of their resupply, taking thick hunting coats and waxed jackets. Johnson ran his hands quickly along the rack containing the smaller items before asking a question of the others in a low voice.

  “How old is Amber, do you think?”

  “Three? Four?” Bufford responded with a shrug, knowing about as much about children as Johnson did.

  “She is not yet five,” Astrid answered in her curious translation without taking her concentration away from the door. Johnson turned back to the rack and took two padded, waterproof coats in sizes ten and five, determined to provide for their youngest members.

  “This is the last of the two-twos,” Enfield said as he returned from the storeroom, bobbing his head and waving his hand over the stacked boxes as he did the mental calculations and finished with a hint of a smile, “Has anyone seen any keys?”

  None of them had, meaning that whatever treasures lay locked away in the cabinets in the back would remain hidden. That was a shame for Enfield, who was something of a firearms connoisseur, especially in the light of recent changes to the UK gun laws which had prohibited some very useful items.

  A little over two years before, they had learned of one of the worst losses of life at the hands of a civilian in their country. A man had killed sixteen people and critically injured almost as many, before taking his own life to take the count to seventeen dead. That had brought about massive change in the legal ownership of guns and had prohibited some semi-automatic rifles, as well as the ownership of handguns and shotguns able to fire more than three shots. That tragedy, that horrific loss of life, still somehow seemed worse in their memories than the unfathomable death toll they faced now. The result of this was that gun dealers were inundated with such prohibited weapons until they could be surrendered, or else deactivated to fall under the new guidelines.