Toy Soldiers Box Set | Books 1-6

by Ford, Devon C.

  He listened to the response, given with whoops and the sounds of enthusiastic backslapping in the background, then ordered the flight crew to fly a pattern over the target site for a full video to be taken, and to head back home.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  In typical fashion, the Sultan broke down after two days. The Warrior pushed ahead of it to be able to sweep a large section of their perimeter, should they be threatened by any Screechers, as the other armed members of their small group fanned out with their eyes alert and their personal weapons made ready.

  “How is it, Charlie?” Johnson called out from the commander’s hatch of the Warrior.

  “Fucked!” came the terse reply. “Gearbox is shot. We can crawl in first or stall in sixth with fuck all in between. Second line job at least. Got a REME FMA in your pocket?” Johnson ignored the rhetorical question.

  Hampton, up on the top of the stranded tracked vehicle with both hands on the big GPMG, huffed in annoyance. They stripped everything they could from the wagon, down to the last bit of diesel they could siphon out, using the length of yellow rubber garden hose to fill the jerry cans they’d decanted into the Warrior’s fuel tank. Hampton, remaining in place behind the machine gun until the job was done, unclipped it from the pintle mount and handed it down to Enfield who had, in turn, made his own small rifle safe and handed it to Peter to hold.

  The boy swelled with pride as he turned outwards to keep a watchful eye on their surroundings, eager to demonstrate that he didn’t negligently point the barrel at any of their own people, with all the enthusiasm of a child seeking praise. His sister, loitering near the open rear section of the Warrior that would become a very cramped and uncomfortable place in the near future, watched him with a curious expression on her face.

  “Let’s get this buffet moving then, aah—shit!” Hampton cursed as his damaged knee took the shockwave of him jumping back down to the roadway. He hobbled for a few paces, muttering more colourful phrases to himself like Popeye reciting an angry monologue, and shot a narrow-eyed look at the girl trying not to smile at his misfortune.

  With a forlorn last look at the uncomfortable metal box that had been his only permanent residence since everything went to hell, Charlie Daniels climbed into the driver’s section of the much newer metal box, this new home making him feel as capricious as the cat, who had been corralled into a more permanent mobile detention centre than the taped-up cardboard box it had previously been trapped in.

  He was grateful for once that the men he was slightly envious of and whom he held in very high regard didn’t possess his skills. Johnson took up his appropriate role in the commander’s spot with Bufford at his side, who had already been partly instructed in the use of the Warrior’s weapons systems, and the rear section was packed with people and equipment.

  Their ‘shopping’ yielded perhaps three days’ supplies for them, which meant that they would be stopping for another supply run within two days. Johnson reckoned that they had maybe four hundred miles of range. He was guessing from what he could recall, as he hadn’t had much in the way of familiarisation with the vehicle and the one he had played with at the proving grounds had admittedly been a test chassis. What they found, however, was that their progress was often halted by blocked roads and their average speed suffered massively as a result.

  “Corporal Daniels,” Johnson asked conversationally as they slowed to approach yet another blockage of rusting vehicles.

  “Sarn’t Major?”

  “Remind me why we’re going around cars and not over them?”

  “Erm…”

  “Bugger me, Charlie,” Johnson sighed. “I know it’s a Volvo but we are driving a sodding tank, Son.”

  Johnson couldn’t see the look on his corporal’s face in response to his words. Why it hadn’t dawned on Daniels to be more bullish with their progress until then was a mystery, but receiving such an epiphany through the medium of permission caused a smile to slowly creep across his face.

  “Hold on tight,” he warned over the vehicle intercom. “Bit of turbulence ahead…”

  He went slowly, running one side of the tracks over the front of the large estate vehicle, then tipped them over to one side until the other tracks crunched over a smaller car which flattened with much greater ease. They travelled that way for hours on end until the occupants of the cramped rear section could take no more discomfort and they found somewhere appropriate to stop.

  Three days went by like that, each day sapping their strength and morale until Johnson was pulled aside by Hampton when they had stopped to rest.

  “We need to dig in for a day at least,” he said. “Everyone needs some rest and the supplies are dwindling.” Johnson nodded, appreciating the straight talking approach from a man he suspected was even less inclined towards bullshit than Johnson was himself.

  “Town ahead,” he told the marine sergeant and nodded in a general direction to their front. “We’ll find somewhere and range out again for food and water.” Hampton nodded back, less inclined to waste his breath on words than many people, and went back to where the others were stretching their legs and their backs and generally blinking at the alien display of sunlight, after being cooped up inside the back of the Warrior for days.

  Of Peter, Johnson had seen less than usual as he was relegated to the rear section and had his sister’s undivided attention. She fussed over him, but Peter seemed oddly resistant to her. Amber had gone the other way, it seemed, and had understandably regressed to the extent that her mother was unable to put her down without the girl bursting into panicked tears and making an uncharacteristic amount of noise. Johnson felt sorry for her, not because of the fear and loss they had all experienced, but for the fact that she couldn’t understand what was happening. Being so young, she had understood that her mother was gone—lost to her—but now that she had inexplicably come back, the girl had become overwhelmed by everything. He didn’t blame her, simply felt a sadness that he could do nothing to salve.

  He stayed on watch in spite of the tiredness he felt behind his eyes after hours of peering intently through the observation window in the Warrior, and noticed how the tall, quiet marine had found himself a piece of high ground to occupy and was scanning the horizon with his weapon. Johnson had thought both men lost, sure that they had died in defence of the village they had been living in, and that he—they—owed their lives to the two men. But then he found out so unexpectedly that they had survived, and this whole experience made him understand a little better how Amber must be feeling now.

  They had travelled north west, bypassing Birmingham and the densely packed sprawling suburbs that all major cities sprouted outwards from their cores like weeds, continuing straight on past Stoke-On-Trent and went to ground in a large industrial unit a day’s drive north west, near the banks of a wide river.

  Travel weary, if not downright bedraggled, they spilled from the vehicle like they’d crashed and were trying to walk off their minor injuries. The area they had stopped in was open enough that there was little to no threat of any immediate attack, but that didn’t prevent them from having their weapons ready, even if their cramped-up bodies didn’t move with the slick alacrity they could demonstrate on better days.

  “Buffs?” Johnson said quietly. The SBS man turned to look at him, silently following the direction of his outstretched hand with his eyes until he saw the side of the building he was pointing at. He looked back to Johnson, seeing him first point to himself then snake his hand around in an exaggerated movement to the left to signify that they would meet around the back. Johnson looked back towards the others, to see Hampton settling himself into a position of relative comfort near the driver’s hatch on the lower hull of the Warrior, just as Enfield adopted a position of overwatch with his small rifle, his backside nestled on the cold armour of the turret. Hampton gave him a nod, signalling that they had this area covered and that the two men could do what they needed to.

  Johnson moved, knowing after so long together tha
t Bufford would already be ahead of him as his drills were slicker and more intense than his own. He saw no competition between them, just a maturity and an understanding that his professional soldiering had taken him down a different path. They all had their roles to play in the current game plan—or at least what had been the plan for Her Majesty’s armed forces before the world turned upside down—and that game plan was transitioning from all-out nuclear war with the Soviet Union to a somewhat sandier climate. Bufford’s role would be to insert himself into enemy territory, most likely by water, but he was also capable of dropping by parachute, walking or driving over any terrain; the aim being either to destroy something vital to the enemy, or to feed back intelligence and targeting information.

  Astrid Larsen, as innocent as she looked to the untrained eye, was a hardened woman whose role would be to insert herself far behind enemy lines, as Bufford would, only she was also able to blend in as a native of their enemy’s motherland and would be trained to sneak in and collapse local infrastructure; transport, power and communications. Everything about the woman made Johnson and the others question why their own armed forces still refused to allow women to conduct frontline fighting roles.

  Johnson, along with Daniels for that matter, was the one who could use his light and mobile armoured vehicles to lure the T-55s of the USSR into chasing them down, only to find themselves swamped by the combined firepower of the rest of the squadron. It was Johnson who had been trained to set such an ambush; to look for the perfect geography and encourage the men to be patient until that trap could be sprung.

  What he wasn’t, and he knew this instinctively, was a Special Forces operator.

  He made more noise than was strictly acceptable, given their circumstances, as he pushed through the overgrown foliage pressing up against the building, and to add insult to injury, he had only covered a third of the circumference before Bufford called out softly from his front to minimise the risk of getting shot over a simple misunderstanding.

  “Anything your side?” Johnson murmured as Bufford appeared through the leaves.

  “Side door on the far side. Doesn’t look like it’s been opened for years. You?”

  “Nothing. Try the side door or move to the next building?”

  “Next building,” Bufford said. “I don’t much like the alternative exit strategy for this one, if you catch my drift.” Johnson did. One of the cardinal rules for surviving the death of the world by flesh-eating monstrosities was never to paint yourself into a corner.

  They moved to the adjacent building, exchanging some brief hand signals with the two royal marines before they ducked out of sight once more. Johnson worked thoroughly, careful not to make too much noise and finding the going easier than the previous building’s exterior had been to navigate. It took him precious seconds to understand why, until his brain caught up with his instincts and he noticed small tell-tale signs of human presence. He froze, not yet sure if that human presence was alive or dead. Tightening the grip on his weapon, he pressed on, turning the corner after a quick glance around it showed Bufford on one knee covering the side door to the unit. He joined him, seeing the intensity in the man’s eyes as he pointed to the apex of the roof above them, indicating the three small windmills stuck to the structure, with wires snaking down to the door they knelt beside. Bufford’s eyebrows went up as if asking for Johnson’s opinion. Johnson shrugged, reaching up with his left hand to touch the door handle and gently pull the handle down. It gave, creaking only slightly as the door opened a crack. Bufford readied himself, nodding to Johnson to signify that he was ready.

  The door was wrenched open and they burst inside, guns up and fingers ready to move onto triggers, with no idea what they expected to find.

  “Fucking hell!” Bufford swore. Johnson glanced over his left shoulder to where the SBS man had moved to. In terms of expectations, Johnson wouldn’t have been surprised to find a ravenous horde of undead. Wouldn’t have been shocked to find other living humans pointing weapons at them. He was, however, very surprised to see neat rows of dark soil in troughs with lengths of hosepipe running along them, jury-rigged lamps hanging above them and green plants sprouting upwards to creep towards the source of the light and heat along intricate networks of wire and sticks.

  Johnson lowered his weapon, reaching out with his left hand to grasp the most unlikely of items and one that he realised he had given up all hope of ever seeing again.

  Pulling gently as his fingers squeezed, the vine pulled with him until the ripe tomato popped off to shake the whole row. He held it up in front of his face, turning it around and inspecting it like it was a chunk of moon rock. He focused his eyes on the incredulous face of Bufford behind the juicy item and spun slowly on the spot to take in the multiple rows of dirt-filled troughs all sprouting different forms of sustenance. He saw potatoes and carrots to accompany the two rows of tomatoes, dreaming of adding a couple of rabbits and some salt and pepper to it.

  Then the truth dawned on him. He was trespassing on some other survivor’s farm, stealing their supplies and threatening their livelihood. A glance at his friend told him that the other man knew it too. A noise from behind them made them both turn and raise their weapons; Johnson standing tall and Bufford dropping to one knee, to train their weapons on a tall, muscled black man with a tangle of dark beard and wide, wild eyes staring at them over a tight-lipped mouth and who was seething with anger. His right hand wasn’t empty, although his heavy metal spike was held low, which somehow made both him and the weapon more menacing, like he knew how to use it and was so confident that he didn’t need to threaten them.

  “Calm down, JP,” a strong Liverpudlian male voice echoed around the inside of the empty factory unit. “I’m pretty sure they aren’t here to pinch our carrots.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “You did what?” Professor Grewal shouted, slamming down the clipboard he was holding so hard that it bounced back up off the desk.

  “Keep your hair on, Doc,” Fisher replied so casually that the scientist was ready to start throwing punches in an attempt to knock the reckless stupidity out of him. “The test was a complete success. Every one of them dead. You should be proud of your achieveme—”

  “Do they teach you this kind of ignorance in the CIA or simply recruit people who naturally possess it?” Fisher’s face dropped the false smile it was maintaining.

  “You were given a job to do. You did it. Don’t think for a second that this was a pet project of yours, that you had any control over the timeli—”

  “They just recruit the arrogance then,” Grewal snarled with angry sarcasm, “understood.” Fisher took a step towards him and swelled up his size, but Grewal matched his movements and bested him in both height and the intensity of his anger.

  “You deployed an untested serum on thousands—hundreds of thousands—of infected subjects with no idea what it would do to them. That kind of stupidity is… is…” he shook his hands beside his ears as there simply wasn’t a word in the English language strong enough to accurately describe what they had done.

  “It has been tested,” Fisher shot back with a retreating step. “You tested it here and it was successful in one hundred percent of the trials. You want more time to repeat that test? You want to be responsible for more deaths when we could be wiping out these assholes with the serum we know works?”

  “It’s unfathomable. We don’t know it works,” Grewal answered him angrily, “that’s the whole point.” Fisher’s face screwed up in total incomprehension. Grewal looked fit to burst, like a kettle boiling water with no steam vent. Seeing this, professor Chambers stepped in between the two men.

  “I believe we were quite clear,” he explained. “We needed to test the serum on one of the anomalous infected before we could guarantee with any kind of certainty that it would work fully.”

  “What are you saying?” Fisher asked, doubt infecting him like the viruses they were discussing could so easily. Chambers rubbed tiredly at his face, turni
ng to see if Grewal wanted to jump back into the conversation, but only seeing him walking away and kicking the large plastic boxes that had contained their lab equipment. He sighed and looked back at the CIA man.

  “Viruses produce different responses based on the physical response of the host. That’s where you get unexplained strains of immunity to certain illnesses.” He paused to check if the slightly shocked agent was keeping up. “The reports—confirmed reports— tell us of a faster type of infected which retains a significant portion of motor function and some higher cognitive ability. This means that the initial infection causes a low-percentage response which, unfortunately for us, actually increases their lethality.”

  “In English, Doc,” Fisher said as he had done so long ago when the current events were little more than a spark of an idea.

  “Simply put, Agent Fisher, the virus has already created mutations. The genetic makeup of those infected who are… different, could have as yet unknown side-effects when combined with the serum.”

  It finally dawned on Fisher. “Why the hell didn’t you test it on one of them?” he half yelled.

  “Because you shot your bloody load early and went to war before we said it was ready,” Grewal hissed through his teeth as he returned to the conversation. “And I can only hope for your sake that it kills them just the same as it does the others.”

  Fisher paced back and forth for a few seconds, evidently deep in thought.

  “Okay,” he said finally, “here’s how we’re going to play it. We get one of the faster ones back here and test it right away.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?” Chambers asked.

  “Then we update the threat package that a tiny percentage of the infected are still in play. We’ll have to go in with ground teams—whole armies—if we want to take the UK back.”