“Had them put a snotty egg in yours,” he said. “Just how you like it.”
Downes, had he been able to, would’ve thanked his NCO profusely. He said nothing, instead nodded in wide-eyed thanks as he’d just crammed the biggest bite of the greasy sandwich as possible into his mouth quicker than he could reload his MP5.
Palmer, less driven by crippling hunger, reached for the tea pot.
“Shall I be mother?” he asked, the words an automatic reaction to the task. With obvious care, he poured the aromatic, dark liquid into three cups and offered one to Mac, who grunted in thanks and sloshed in an unmeasured amount of milk, before heaping sugar into it and banging the teaspoon around like he was ringing a dinner gong.
Palmer, ignoring the lack of manners as an irrelevance, deftly scooped sugar onto his own spoon and cascaded it into the liquid, then added milk with such precision that he didn’t spill a drop. He finished his ritual by swirling the liquid and gently running the edge of the spoon on the lip of the cup, to then place it down without a sound. He offered that cup to Downes and repeated the ritual as the man chewed desperately, before swallowing large mouthfuls of bread, pork and egg.
When Downes had finished, gently thumping one fist into his chest as though he could force down the food, he nodded his thanks and took a long gulp of tea, only to pull a face and squeeze his eyes shut, forcing that swallow down. He opened his eyes to regard the tray and saw Mac snatch up his own sandwich in case it was picked off by enemy fire. Palmer gently pushed his own towards him.
“This would be my second of the day,” he admitted, “and I also ate yesterday. I insist, Sir.”
Downes offered no resistance and gladly ate a second sandwich as the three sat in silence, waiting for him to regain his strength. Palmer made him another cup from the pot and waited patiently.
“So,” Downes said as he leaned back and hid an uncomfortable burp behind his hand, “Kelly has adopted the strong-arm approach to matters?”
Mac and Palmer exchanged a look before the captain picked up his cup and lifted one leg over the other as he sat back.
“Perhaps I should start from the beginning?”
Downes’ collapse caused more than a little hysteria among the civilians of their convoy to have witnessed it. Their medic, a man inclined towards sounding at the same time both bored and annoyed, if only because of his accent, had rushed in to take over and deal with the major. This was a condition his training and experience made him far more comfortable to treat than the uncertain arena of infected human bites.
“Commanding officers report to quarantine exit. I repeat, commanding officers to quarantine exit,” the speaker announced insistently. The younger Palmer appeared, his boiler suit somehow fitting him, whereas everyone else’s only seemed to fit where they touched. He ignored the obvious look of hostility from the rough SAS soldier and smiled at his older brother in the hope that he could convey his support without words.
“Leave the talking to me,” Palmer Senior said with a quiet forcefulness. “I rather suspect we aren’t as welcome as one would hope.”
The two officers and the NCO met up with Lloyd and the German, Wolff, as the hastily built shelter was unlocked and the five men slipped out amid the shouted questions and protests of the civilians. Three uniformed men, all wearing respirators and carrying automatic rifles, led the way up the slope away from the ferry dock. They were ushered into the rear of a military Land Rover, climbing up to sit under the canvas back that kept the persistent drizzle from their cold bodies. The ride was blessedly short, given that they bounced around on the cold, hard metal interior over the bumpy roads, all the while feeling the chill of the brisk Atlantic wind as it found every gap in the flapping canvas cover.
With a metallic squeal of protesting brakes, the vehicle pulled to a stop and the sound of the driver banging his flat hand on his own door prompted them to shuffle awkwardly to the back and climb down. A two-storey stone cottage was before them, with a single soldier standing sentry at the door, so low that they were forced to duck under the lintel to escape the rain.
The cottage, a modest dwelling which had evidently been repurposed very recently, opened up into what would have been the sitting room and which now played host to the dining table, covered in paperwork. The five newcomers stepped inside, filling all the available space in seconds to somehow reduce the air in the room.
A whistling sound came from the next room, prompting Palmer to step towards the threshold of the doorway and clear his throat politely.
“With you in a minute,” came a strong reply. Palmer stepped back delicately, as though chastened by a teacher at the expensive boarding school of his youth, to wait as the sounds of china clanking together drifted out to them. Moments later, a man of remarkably average height and build walked in bearing a tray loaded with mugs piled on top of one another precariously and a large pot venting steam from the spout. He cleared a section of paperwork from the table by shoving it along and slid the tray onto the wood. Letting out a breath which spoke of relief at his success in not dropping the precious cargo onto the floor, he turned to regard them before snapping his fingers in front of his face.
“Biscuits,” he said, turning his face towards the kitchen and bellowing the word for the attention of someone they had yet to see. A man wearing the uniform of the Grenadier Guards, adorned with a captain’s insignia, stepped into the room with a handful of the small, wrapped parcels they recognised from their ration packs. The biscuits were added to the tray and the two men turned in the small room to regard their visitors.
“Kelly,” the first man said by way of introduction before gesturing at the younger man. “Barton.”
Barton nodded his greeting and ducked out of the room again, evidently not needed for whatever conversation was about to take place.
“Colonel,” Palmer Senior began, one flat hand on his chest as he prepared to launch into a short speech of gratitude for their hospitality.
“And you are?” Kelly asked in a brief bark.
“Palmer, Sir. Household Cavalry.” Kelly nodded once and turned to the next man in line. Wolff’s heels snapped together and he opened his mouth to speak, but Kelly lifted a hand dismissively.
“I can guess who you are, Captain Wolff. You?”
“Lloyd, Sir. Royal Marines.” Kelly’s eyebrow twitched upwards as if to explain that he could damn well tell the difference between the uniforms of the British army and the royal marines, and then his gaze came to rest on the second to last man.
“Lieutenant Palmer,” Palmer Junior crooned, dropping the double-barrel as his brother had, so as not to confuse matters unnecessarily, “Yeomanry.”
Kelly looked at the last man, meeting Mac’s eyes and exchanging a nod with the man who came from the same place he did.
“Am I to assume,” the colonel said sombrely, “that Major Downes did not make it here?”
“He’s well enough,” Mac answered, “suffering from a touch of exposure on account of taking a wee swim as the rear guard.” Kelly smiled, genuinely pleased that the other SAS officer had survived.
“Right, well, I shan’t keep you long,” he said, “I know you’ll be anxious to get back to your people. We’ll give you a few days to rest, but after that, I’ll need every able-bodied man, woman and child to pitch in; things aren’t exactly easy, isolated up here.” He paused to pour tea from the pot into the mugs, beckoning them forward to help themselves and spoke as they waited patiently for their turn at the tray.
“There are a number of farming and fishing tasks in need of more hands—not the deeper water stuff, obviously, just coastal trawling—and a significant amount of work is required to patrol the perimeter here.” He took a sip, smiling at the drink as if he were pleased with himself for making it well when it wasn’t a task he was remotely accustomed to performing.
“We’ve got over six hundred square miles of rocky island to keep clear, and you’re never more than five miles from the coast at any one point, I�
�m assured. Lots of places one of the bloated bastards could wash up, and it’ll come as no surprise to you that I could do with more trained men. That’s where you’ll come in, when you’re rested, Captains,” he said, pointing at Palmer and Wolff. “The men already in place will maintain control of the two open quarantine docks but you’ll oblige me by commanding a section of coast for patrols.”
Kelly ignored the lieutenant, assuming him to be under the command of the man with the hint of family resemblance who must have been a relation, turning to the royal marine to request of him the same task. He left Mac off the orders list, no doubt intending to catch up with his officer when he was able to.
“And, Sir,” Palmer asked as he took half a step forward. “Might I enquire as to the state of things in the wider world?”
“The wider world?”
“Quite. You see, we’ve been somewhat out of the loop, so to speak…”
“Yes, I imagine you have been. Well, Captain, I’m sorry to say that the European continent is lost; either to atomic bombs or to the enemy.” He let the silence hang so that they all understood the finality of his words, noting how stone-faced their German ally was at receiving the confirmation.
“Given that the Americans nuked the Russians as soon as the Russians nuked their European borders, and a good number of their own Soviet States I might add, we can assume that everything to the east is either dead, dying or otherwise shut off. Australia, New Zealand and a handful of other island nations are closed off, although they’re still speaking to us, at least…” he trailed off, glancing at the front window as the sound of another vehicle pulled up outside. “Speaking of the outside world,” he said with a hint of annoyance as the front door opened and a man walked in, wearing black uniform with a sidearm holstered on his belt. He stopped, taking in the dishevelled men in matching boiler suits before smiling at them in welcome and helping himself to a cup from the table.
“Gentlemen,” Kelly said, “Agent Fisher, CIA.” Fisher spluttered on his drink.
“Dammit, Colonel. I brought you some coffee…” He turned to face the men again.
“Just Fisher is fine,” he said. “And congratulations on surviving this long.” He turned to Kelly and raised his eyebrows as if to ask why they weren’t already talking in private.
“You’ll be given billets after everyone passes quarantine. Take a few days to recuperate and get your equipment back. Good day, gentlemen.”
They filed out, finding their uncomfortable ride still in place with the engine running. Climbing back aboard to wait for the bumpy return ride, Palmer had to raise his voice for the others to hear him.
“I’d hazard a guess that we’ve just discovered where the real power lies.”
TWELVE
“Ladies on the left, gents on the right,” Daniels announced after tentatively checking outside their armoured vehicle for any signs of unwelcome attention. They’d driven until darkness forced them to stop, and as they were unable to find anywhere enclosed to rest, they’d elected for the most open area where nothing could approach without being noticed.
They went to their respective sides of the Sultan in the early dawn to empty the overnight contents of their bladders; Daniels took his Sterling to their side, insisting that Ellie take their only other weapon, the shotgun, to their female bathroom.
“Try the others?” Jessica asked as they climbed back up to escape the cold outside air for the slightly less cold air inside the Sultan. Duncan checked the maps as Daniels started the engine to get some heat into the interior. He hadn’t wanted to leave it running or rig up the external generator.
“Need some bloody fuel soon,” he mumbled, earning a demand from Jessica to know what he’d just said.
“Nothing. Did you want to try them?” Jessica didn’t respond to him, but threw herself into the seat by the radio set and began to hail Johnson.
“They’re not answering,” she yelled after a while, frowning that she hadn’t received an answer and clambering up to poke her head out of the hatch. She opened her mouth to repeat herself, but then stopped, seeing the direction they were all facing and hearing the noise that had attracted their collective attention. Her elevated position meant she could identify the source of the noise before they could see it, and the single spoken word sparked a flurry of action.
“Car.”
Daniels and Duncan scrambled for the front of the Sultan, making Ellie follow without instruction. Duncan dropped into the driver’s hatch as Daniels settled himself in behind the butt of the machine gun mounted on the top, to swing the long barrel towards the direction of the approaching sound. Then they waited.
“Start her up,” he instructed. “Just in case.”
“In case what?” Jessica asked, remembering only fractionally later than the others that not all people were as welcoming as they would be. Tense seconds ticked by until a dirty brown car rolled over the top of a rolling dip that characterised the roads in the area. Daniels adjusted the aim of the GPMG to meet the sudden intrusion but almost immediately let the barrel of the gun swing up as he relaxed.
“It’s the marines,” he said, climbing out to meet them as the car pulled up close to them with protesting brakes.
“There’s hospitality for you,” the thick-set driver complained as he pulled himself out of the car and limped around the front towards them.
“Sorry,” Daniels said, gesturing up at the gun. “Can’t be too careful…”
“He meant leaving without us, dickhead,” the passenger said, having exited the vehicle without being noticed. He cradled a short rifle with a fat barrel across his body and looked so comfortable with it that the weapon seemed like an intimate part of him.
“Sorry,” Daniels said again. “Had to move quickly before the locals brought their pitchforks.” The two marines, still wearing most of their uniform but with bits of civilian clothing evident on both, gave each other a fleeting look.
“We know what you mean,” the older man said. “Ran into some resistance when we were gearing up to leave, ourselves.”
“Oh?” Ellie asked from her spot on top of the tracked vehicle.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” the man with the rifle said dismissively. She could imagine one of the self-styled leaders of the people left at the house trying to tell these two what they could and couldn’t do, and smiled to herself as she imagined the two Royal Marines doing what they wanted anyway. The smile faded when she thought of all the people left behind.
“Did the swarm come?” she asked quietly.
“Think so,” the man with the rifle said. “We saw the faster ones coming over the hill when we took off.”
“And there are more than usual out on the road this morning,” the driver added, “so we should probably get moving.”
“Okay, we keep going north,” Daniels said before looking to Jessica. “And keep trying Johnson on the radio.”
“Johnson?” the marines chorused in shock.
Daniels frowned, confirming who he was talking about. He hadn’t spoken to the two men since they had arrived a few days earlier and they had been resting ever since the ordeal that left them at the house.
“Where are they?” Hampton demanded. “Have they still got the kids with them?”
“Kids?” Ellie asked.
“Boy and a girl,” Enfield said quietly. “Peter and Amber.” Ellie gasped, looking at Jessica, who was wearing a look of abject shock that mirrored her own.
“You get on that bloody radio,” Ellie hissed, “and you find out where they are.”
The muted crackling of the radio inside the Warrior drifted out into the barn, causing the occupants to stir. Exhaustion and adrenaline had taken their toll. One adult was left on sentry duty and could be forgiven for falling asleep while guarding their location. So when the radio sparked to life and the scratching and moaning answered from outside, they all woke to see a panicked Kimberley looking aghast that she hadn’t raised the alarm sooner.
Bufford was
up first, weapon in hand as he moved towards the gap in the barn doors and held out a hand towards the frightened woman to try to tell her that it was okay. Larsen joined him, moving her head from side to side as she tried to see through the crack into the dawn and assess the strength and numbers of the enemy, without getting too close.
The radio crackled again, prompting a swelling surge in the intensity of the moaning outside. Bufford turned back to flap a hand at Johnson in the gloomy interior of the building, telling him silently to shut the noise down.
“Shit,” he hissed, glancing at Astrid and receiving confirmation of his assessment of the enemy.
“Twenty or more out there,” she said quietly. “I would suggest that we go now.” In response to her words, the moaning outside swelled and the wooden doors creaked as the combined body weight of so many agitated corpses surged towards the crack. They hastily threw their gear inside as Johnson primed and started the raucous engine. In the confines of the barn, the exhaust note barked louder than any car on the road ever could, to rise and growl with a deafening rumble. Hatches closed just in time as shafts of wan daylight began to appear in the wooden walls as well as the sliding doors, threatening that the structure could not hope to hold back the dead for long.
Johnson slammed down his own hatch just as the left-hand door splintered and fell inwards at an angle to admit a meagre flood of hungry creatures, like water breaking through a child’s dam in a stream. The last image he had of the grotesque sight was of a Lima crouching to leap onto the front of the tracked vehicle, to shriek as it beat bloody fists into a ruin of broken bones and torn fingernails as if, with the sheer force of its malevolence, it could break through.
As his hands and feet manipulated the controls, Johnson realised the horrific sight wasn’t the only assault on his senses in their rude awakening, because some of the stench that followed the former humans had crept inside before he had safely sealed the hatch.
Toy Soldiers Box Set | Books 1-6 Page 90
