He awoke sometime in the dead of the night, in as much as his body began to move when what had made him him had fled; chased away by the temperature soaring in his brain and killing off every conscious part of the man who had once inhabited the body. He stood, seemingly full of power and rage as pain and hunger no longer affected him as it once had. He staggered from the shower cubicle as the plastic sheet slithered over his face until gravity pulled it down behind him, then his head snapped to the right in response to a sound; a single cough, low and soft, but the unmistakable sound of something living nearby. He sniffed the air, an animalistic and predatory gesture which sparked him onwards towards the narrow cots set up all along the section of the large ship. He found the first beating heart, the first hot skin to meet his teeth, sleeping in an alcove near the toilet block. Only a choking, gurgling sound came from the person as they gasped without vocal cords or the supply of blood to the brain. The hot, sticky fluid fountained upwards so hard that the flow atomised on the metal roof above their makeshift bed and sent a fine red mist to drift down over them. The first man chewed on the mouthful of crunchy sinew and stringy meat for a while, until something made it stop and regard its victim. The milky, blind eyes found themselves mirrored by a similar stare, and slowly the first man opened his mouth to allow the chewed flesh and pipes to drop out of his foul maw. The second man rose, walking off in a direction for no known reason and not bothering to check if the first man had followed him. He had in fact followed, solely because the movement and noise attracted it to the behaviour of its victim, which now somehow led the way for him. They killed as a pair, chewing great lumps from men and women indiscriminately until a horrified scream sounded the alarm. By the time they had been discovered there were five of them animated, all following the second one of them to have been turned, and as the main sleeping area awoke to the terror of shouts and screams, they all tried at once to get through the single door leading away from the threat.
New sounds answered those screams, as the unholy shrieks of all but one of the newly turned beasts sounded horribly loud in the metal confines of the ship’s belly. What followed was a bloodbath, where the only escape to be had was either over the side of the ship into the icy blackness below, or else out of the docks and into the foggy city where death would just take a little longer to find them.
EIGHTEEN
Nevin drove slowly, keeping the revs of the Ferret low and thereby reducing the chances of them being detected. They didn’t need to maintain visual contact with them, as the tracks they left in the snow were like a shining beacon that just cried out to be followed. Those tracks eventually stopped at a barricade in a country road between two large properties on the edge of a small village. They left their vehicle far away from the village and went back on foot, both carrying their weapons, to spy on the barricade.
Voices reached them, drifting back on the wind, and not raised carelessly as they would be if amateurs resided there. The height of the barricade meant that they could see nothing, and Nevin turned to Michaels and indicated with hand signals that he was going to skirt around the village. He added a gesture to tell Michaels to stay where he was, but the raised eyebrow made it clear he had overstepped the mark. Nevin said nothing more, only went and wished that he could take the keys to his Ferret, when like all military vehicles, the damned thing started on a switch and couldn’t be overridden.
He went slowly, hugging the ground low and keeping his eyes and ears alive to the risk of discovery. He went to the left, to the lower ground, and tracked a small brook which bubbled and raged in its own tiny way, with the additional water flowing in between the rocks and chunks of ice. He stopped, finding the smallest of gaps to peer through in the prickly hedge running beside the stream, when he saw something that he didn’t expect; that was, if the people inside had been tactically minded. In the gloomy air outside, the shining beacon of artificial light coming from the wide windows and double doors of the kitchen shone like a beacon, even though the sun had yet to start its decline with any purpose.
The light didn’t surprise him, but what did take his breath away and threaten to rob him of all stealth and sense was the shape he saw in the kitchen.
It, he, was unmistakable. The size of him. The sheer presence, despite having clearly lived in the wild for weeks or more, given the beard he now sported. The cut of his large shoulders and the disapproving, threatening cut of his brow.
Johnson. Squadron Sergeant Major Dean Fucking Johnson.
The man had terrorised him. Hit him, on more than one occasion, and never missed an opportunity to humiliate or punish him. He was the reason that Nevin had escaped the bounds of the army, had abandoned his mates – or at least the men who should have considered him as a mate – to death and fear when he had ensured his own safety.
If he’s here, Nevin thought to himself, then where is the rest of the squadron?
His logical mind told him that half, or maybe a third, of the squadron was destroyed when he had got clean away, but then he recalled that Mister Johnson had never made it back. He had been stranded on the island or, if the helicopter had even made it there to lift them out, he was lost somewhere, along with a load of the marines.
Nevin settled in to watch. He saw the owner of the blonde hair they had both seen in the truck cab, and he smiled evilly at her uncommon looks. She was no beauty, not in his opinion anyway, but she had a look that was different. He saw another woman, one that he had recognised from the island, as well as the short sergeant of marines and another bearded man he didn’t recognise.
That’s four, Nevin thought, and none of them is from the squadron.
He assured himself that Johnson was stranded, cut off from the main group, if they even still lived, and had met up with others. They must have fortified their little village and thought themselves safe, but he guessed that they hadn’t counted on having to defend themselves against an enemy with heavy machine guns. He slithered back to Michaels, finding him gone from where he had left him, and so he jogged back awkwardly on the frozen ground to find him lounging on the angled hull of the Ferret with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, as he had his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his collar turned up against the icy breeze.
“Well?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t fucking believe it,” Nevin answered in an excited whisper, “It’s bloody Johnson!”
“Who?”
“Johnson!”
“Hang on,” Michaels said as the penny dropped, “Johnson, Johnson? The SSM?”
“Yeah, and it looks like there’s only a few of them there with all the food in that truck they found.”
Evil mirrored evil as their eyes met, both of them feeling an air of excitement at taking from others, especially others who had ruled their lives with strict discipline.
“How many is a few?” he asked.
“Shh,” Astrid Larsen said abruptly as she held up a finger, “did you hear that? The engine sounds?”
“I heard nothing,” Enfield said. From anyone else the speed of his answer might have sounded dismissive, but she knew him well enough to know that he was always tuned in to his senses. She relaxed, satisfied that she had imagined the sound of revs picking up before dropping into a higher gear.
They carried on unloading the truck, carrying large sacks of dried pasta, wearing smiles that only the promise of a full belly could warrant. There was rice and flour too, as well as huge catering tins of baked beans and mushy peas. It wasn’t going to be winning any awards for style and presentation, but their dinner would be packed full of much needed calories.
They ate together, the mood high despite the bitterly low temperatures outside, and for the first time in as long as they could remember, they were full. It didn’t go to waste, as the leftovers were sealed in Tupperware tubs and placed outside on the patio. One plate with half a portion left untouched wasn’t saved, however, as the scraggy cat had leapt silently onto the worksurface to lap at the sauce until it was noticed. It froze, g
rowling in a way that was almost funny, and shook its head rapidly to kill the pasta shell it held between its teeth.
They went to bed, with no idea that their safe haven was firmly in the crosshairs of men who had learned to enjoy the pain of others.
The mood at the Hilltop was sullen, awkward even, and both Michaels and Nevin received curious looks when they returned.
“What the fuck is that all about?” Nevin moaned to Michaels, who simply huffed in response to simultaneously indicate that he neither knew nor cared. Orders were given, men and women were armed, and a scrawny goat was taken from the shed it lived in to be dragged reluctantly to the back of a truck by the rope around its neck.
The fighting men, and a couple of women in the same bracket, left the Hilltop without reassurance or communication with anyone there. A handful of guards, now more worried about their leadership than either the zombies or the men and women under their ‘protection’, shot nervous and sullen looks as they were left alone and outnumbered by the small population who seemed ready to revolt. One guard in particular was wary, the one keeping the door firmly shut on the woman who was locked inside after her attempt at escape. The guard was finding that her evident popularity with the crowd was in directly inverse proportions to his own. The small crowd gathered, saying and doing nothing except watching him and the door he was blocking. He was so intimidated by the passive aggression of these unmoving people that he wanted back-up and demanded that other guards join him there. Barring the way with their shotguns, almost half of the armed guards left behind ended up huddled in that doorway before long. If any more were required there, it would seriously hamper the security of the main approach as they were already spread thinly enough.
If Michaels and Nevin didn’t get back soon, they thought, then they wouldn’t be coming back to the same place they left.
The uprising was ready to start; all it needed was a spark.
The three vehicles ‒ an estate car, a farm pickup and a Ferret scout car with a turret-mounted thirty-calibre heavy machine gun ‒ chugged at a gentle pace through the countryside. They went via a very circuitous route, stopping at every village and town to kick in doors where they could and make enough noise to invite anything preserved inside to shuffle forth into the harsh glare of a snow-covered landscape. The hibernating zombies woke. Whole families, as they once had been, staggered outside on stiff limbs in response to the sounds and smells of fresh, living meat. Each settlement they passed through prompted more followers, and the desperate bleating of the tethered goat attracted them inexorably onwards as the convoy pressed on. They had established a pattern; accelerating as they approached a village, dismount, kick doors in or open them, return to the vehicles and make noise until the leading edge of the herd following them caught up. Rinse and repeat.
There weren’t many dead preserved inside, and some villages held none at all, but they had amassed enough of an undead infantry division that by the time the Ferret pulled ahead to lead the way to the fortified settlement they wanted to attack, there were close to fifty zombies, all dry and musty in various shapes and sizes and states of undress following in their wake.
The goat was never going to be a winner in this scenario, and when the three vehicles pulled off the main road ahead of the small herd and the goat was dragged, pulling and bleating loudly, from the pickup they could see the approaching micro-horde speed up as the smell and sound of the distressed animal reached their senses.
Nevin didn’t so much volunteer for the job, but he didn’t really object either. To be the one who acted so bravely to take down Mister Bloody Johnson was an accolade he would be happy to live with, after they had broken down their defences and taken what they had.
He moved slowly, angry at the incredible strength the wiry goat had summoned up, but when it smelled the rotten flesh behind it, there seemed to be no more argument about which direction they should head in. Nevin stooped, scooped the animal up bodily despite the struggling, and dumped it over the vehicle barricade with difficulty. He heard a crunch as the animal landed, unseen on the far side, and instantly the bleating ramped up in volume, intensity and frequency. The thing positively screamed, and Nevin smiled sickeningly as he guessed it must have broken something as it fell to the frozen roadway on the other side.
Happy with the results, he ducked away to double back to the safety of his armoured vehicle as the zombies shrieked and moaned to fight one another and jostle for the lead position as they zeroed in on the injured goat.
Game on, he thought to himself.
The sound of a baby crying made them all freeze. Wide eyes met others that mirrored their shock and disbelief, and as one they all scrambled for their coats and weapons to pour outside. The sight of a goat, one front leg held off the ground and dangling as the thing bleated constantly in high-pitched protestation at the pain, confused them all.
“What the…” Hampton began, just as Enfield pushed past him and raised the small rifle to drill a bullet into the goat’s eye socket.
“…hell?” he finished.
“Noise like that will attract everything for miles,” Enfield said, “like a bleeding fish flapping in the water, the sharks’ll come.”
The now dead goat still held everyone’s attention, as the blood poured out in pulsating gouts to soak the snow red. When the sound of the injured animal had echoed away to nothing, another sound, one far more ominous and recognisable, filled the air like a hum.
Shrieks, far off but still too close, and the moaning, wheezing sounds of air being driven in and out of lungs which no longer seemed to need it appeared to surround them.
“Bags,” Johnson hissed, “everyone in the catering truck just in case, now!”
By everyone, he meant Kimberley and the children, as the others were already launching into action. Enfield threw himself up a ladder lashed to the side of a house with a small balcony that offered a commanding view of the road. He hefted the small civilian rifle he had grown so fond of, but still had his beloved Accuracy International sniper rifle on his back, despite the limited number of bullets he had left for it.
Peter had gone back inside for Amber, smiled at her and helped her sweep up the stuffed lamb and toys into her bag before hurrying her down the stairs to slip her little feet into her Wellington boots and wrap the new padded wax jacket around her. He added a scarf and a hat until only her eyes were visible, then bundled her and the bags he carried into the truck.
She didn’t fall for the false smile and the higher-pitched voice offering her reassurance that everything was alright. She wasn’t stupid. She knew something was very, very wrong. She didn’t even flinch when the sharp snapping cracks of Enfield’s measured shots pierced the air. Peter left her there, returning shortly afterwards wearing more layers and throwing bag after bag into the back of the truck and holding his trusted spike aloft before smiling at her again and disappearing from view. Other sounds rang out, confusing her with what sounded like stones being thrown hard against metal in closely-grouped twos and threes. Amber sighed, pulling the dirty stuffed lamb from her bag and nudging down her scarf, she pressed the worn material to her lips and waited for it to end.
“Where did this lot come from?” Hampton asked, his own rifle still unfired as he among all of them carried an unsuppressed weapon. The increase in the intensity of the attack made him rectify that as the louder noise of his weapon joined the fray.
“Fuck knows,” Bufford answered, his voice distorted by his right cheek being pressed hard into the stock of his weapon as he moved and fired, moved and fired, picking off the skulls of the nearest Screechers to prevent them from reaching the barricade.
A shriek tore the air behind them as a cluster of three or four emaciated monsters had worked their way inside through a weakness they hadn’t known existed. They were at the rear of the truck, reaching inside and snapping their blackened teeth at the warm flesh of the precious cargo. Johnson heard the shriek of the Screechers in attack, turning and raising his weapon j
ust as a hatchet blade swept downwards into one skull, and a two-pronged spike burst from the back of the head of another. Three more attacked over their dying comrades, unthinking and uncaring as to their fate, and as Johnson lined up to riddle their brains with bullets, the huge booming report of a shotgun firing filled the air. One of the heads he was aiming at fell away, half severed by the scattering lead storm, then another popped open like a hard-boiled egg. Johnson bit down his revulsion and drilled a pair of bullets into the remaining zombie. He ran forward, kicking the bodies clear of the open tail section, and glanced inside to see Peter concentrating, with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he forced his shaking fingers to slot new cartridges into the sawn-off shotgun. He locked eyes with Kimberley, her own weapon dripping gore, and he jumped to drag down the roller shutter lower in readiness to leave. They were fighting all around now, and the end was inevitable.
Toy Soldiers Box Set | Books 1-6 Page 77
