Toy Soldiers Box Set | Books 1-6

by Ford, Devon C.

  A feeling. A creeping sensation. A cellular knowledge made him turn around, as the absence of sound and wind from behind him told his brain that there was a person there.

  Rotating his head slowly, he saw the shirted man standing with such horrible and unnerving stillness that his presence was the absolute portent of the violent end he always expected to meet in battle one day.

  He had expected it by an Argentine bomb or bayonet in the Falklands and he had expected it from a sniper in an attic room in Derry or Belfast, but he never, not once, expected to die as he did on a freezing roadside on a Scottish island.

  He began to raise the gun but it was knocked violently aside by an arm much stronger than his own. He retreated a step to whip the Browning pistol up and trigger two fast shots into the chest right where the heart was, in the classic double-tap he had trained to deliver for so many years.

  The muscle-memory of the fatal shots—fatal in almost any other scenario—cost him his life. Had he acted less instinctively, had his brain pulled the trigger and not his subconscious, as he had trained his body to do, he might have aimed for the head and scored a lucky hit.

  The two bullets did nothing. They didn’t even delay his death for a second as the hideous thing before him snatched a hand out and dug the fingernails of its right hand into the flesh above his collar bone, tearing through the three layers of clothing to break the skin and snap the bone as it dragged him towards its open mouth.

  The last thing Tipuric saw, before he was blinded by the sheet of blood flowing from the bite to his head, was the bright reflection of the illuminating mortar in the black eyes of the thing that killed him.

  Fisher, unable to sleep in his bed, went downstairs in the house he and the other CIA men had adopted as their own and sat in a threadbare, wing-backed chair that he guessed was older than he was. He poured himself something from a bottle bearing a name on the label he couldn’t pronounce and held it up to the small light that the lamp bulb emitted to bathe the room in a soft, dull yellow. The colour and clarity of the drink was to his liking, and he allowed himself the small fantasy that he was a connoisseur of such things before taking a hit of the drink and tossing it back without tasting it.

  He coughed hard, spluttering as if the harsh whisky had fought back and insisted that he treat it with more respect than to just swallow it like it was prescribed medication, instead of something that took years to mature.

  He wiped his eyes and stood to pour another, still coughing intermittently, and took a tentative sip this time. He allowed the drink to coat his mouth and burn his gums before taking a swallow and feeling the liquid pass down his throat to where it warmed his stomach and tempted him to take another sip.

  When that glass was finished, he allowed himself another, arguing internally that he was unlikely to hear anything important until the morning when the tapes of the air bombardment and the reconnaissance fly-over were delivered to the carrier.

  That footage would vindicate him, he was certain. It would show that the infected were made inert, were bleeding out to pose no threat to the lives of American servicemen who would be arriving by boat the following summer to begin cleansing the nation, ready for clean-up and repopulation.

  After that, they would move into the European states that could be easily defended, and from there the pattern he had devised would be repeated. They would again use the devices to attract the infected into concentrated areas before destroying them with the anti-virus developed under his direction. This simple, and most importantly cost-effective, strategy he was sure would earn him an elevated position when the deck was shuffled, which it surely would be soon.

  There were other states in the world still alive, still independent, but their survival was largely down to luck and geography, whereas the United States remained whole through strict quarantine procedures and a hard line of dedicated defence. He’d heard the scuttlebutt that so many ships had been sunk and so many aircraft shot out of the skies to prevent even the slightest chance that the virus would land on their home soil. All of those refugees who had followed procedure and been taken in would one day be repatriated to run what would effectively be a client state of their own administration.

  He knew that if the boot were on the other foot, the Brits or the French would do precisely as they had done. He doubted the might hiding behind the Iron Curtain would have been much different, for that matter.

  Fisher’s tumbling thoughts of the world’s politics and his own ambitions swirled in his head until, ironically, the sleep that eluded him in bed took him quickly as his head slumped against one of the high wings of the armchair.

  A hammering noise woke him, reminding him of a jackhammer ripping up the road to make way for more roads, more cars, more people. The world had too many people in it already.

  The hammering sounded again, reaching his brain fully this time and setting off the alarm bells. The bangs on the wooden door sounded as if the person on the other side were fleeing the very hounds of hell.

  He woke with a gasp, the empty glass falling from his lap to land on the thick hearth rug with a heavy thump of the crystal tumbler’s base. A strangled noise escaped his throat as he stood, unsteady through tiredness more than the few glasses of scotch, and he made his way to the door to slide across the heavy bolt and admit a red-faced, terrified man in American military uniform.

  “Sir!” he gasped, “We have to get the hell outta here!”

  “Calm down, soldier,” Fisher ordered him. “What’s going on?”

  “Outbreak,” the soldier panted, “at the lab.”

  Fisher stared at him for a second with a blank expression on his face. He rejected the urges to ask if he was sure, or to state the idiotic belief that there had to be a mistake. He swallowed, nodded to himself, then turned to face up the stairs and bawl out that they were leaving. The other two agents had already been woken up by the banging and both appeared at the top of the stairs to exchange terrified glances with one another.

  “Take the other vehicle and meet us at the airfield,” Fisher told them as he shoved his feet into his boots and pulled open the door under the stairs where they had stowed their emergency gear. Fisher took a spare magazine for the Beretta he carried to augment the two full ones, then picked up a Colt sub machine gun, similar to the larger versions so easily recognised the world over but firing the smaller ammunition like his sidearm. Two spare magazines for that went into a pocket of the coat and he turned to see the uniformed man almost dancing on the spot as he glanced behind him into the darkness, clutching his own service weapon.

  Fisher prompted him to move, climbing into the left side of the vehicle as the panicked soldier drove a little too fast for the narrow roads.

  “Calm it down a little,” he said after one too many close calls with the rocky edge of the road, “we ain’t getting out of here if you kill us in a car wreck now, are we?”

  “No, Sir,” came the reply in a voice that sounded almost tearful.

  “Tell me what you know,” Fisher instructed him.

  “We had watch on the quarantine barricade, like you said,” he blurted out. “All of a sudden they just lit up the night; full auto and flares. Then they went quiet and the noises started in…”

  “What noises?”

  “The screams, like, animal screams…”

  “Like a screech?”

  “Yeah, only… only worse than I ever heard…”

  “Did you call it in?” Fisher asked, trying to get him back on track.

  “The Lieutenant was trying to. He sent me to get you back to the airfield so you could call in reinforcements or whatever…” Fisher chuckled darkly.

  “Sir?”

  “Son, why would the United States military throw reinforcements at this place? We were only here to test the serum against them and now we know that works, well…”

  “So, everyone will…”

  “LOOK OUT,” Fisher snarled as the soldier snatched the wheel over to narrowly avoid a gatepo
st they were heading directly for. “Eyes on the goddamned road!”

  They arrived at the airfield after a few more miles of tense silence and Fisher slid from the vehicle to start shouting orders for the helicopter to be made ready to fly. The air crews seemed surprised to be roused in the night, but the news of a suspected outbreak encouraged them to get into the air as soon as possible.

  The rotors were turning, and Fisher was standing at the rear ramp when one of the crew tapped him on the shoulder and beckoned him to the bulkhead, where he was handed a headset. The pilot was on the other end, asking when they were taking off. He looked back out into the darkness, wondering how the other two agents could have taken close to half an hour just to get dressed and drive the few miles to follow him, and he made a judgement call.

  “Go now,” he said, “if they aren’t here by now, I don’t think they’re coming.”

  The helicopter took off, rotating in the air to point the nose west before dipping it and surging through the dark sky. Their path took them over the house that Fisher had been in so recently, and when he heard the reports of a fire there through his headset, he couldn’t understand how the idyllic farmhouse, with its surprisingly comfortable chair and potent scotch, was burning. He knew, or at least he strongly suspected, that the other two agents with him had run into the infected shortly after he’d escaped the house, and his thoughts tortured him, wondering if they might still be alive if he’d stayed long enough for them to get dressed and get in the vehicle with him.

  Cold, hard, good sense reasserted itself and he knew that if he had stayed, it wouldn’t mean the addition of two more lives on the aircraft now, but would spell the death of everyone. That guilt hit him immediately as his conscience forced him to give everyone still on the island as much of a fighting chance to survive as possible.

  “Call up the base,” he instructed the crew. “Tell them there’s been an outbreak. Tell them… tell them to do whatever they can.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  The door to the room Downes had adopted as his own burst open as if the big Scotsman occupying the doorway was clearing the room of terrorists.

  “On your fucking feet, Boss,” Mac barked. “Bastards are on the island.” If any words would bring a man into full alertness under any circumstances, it would be the report that Screechers had boots on the ground in their safe haven.

  “Where?”

  “East coast.”

  Downes was dressed before the brief exchange was complete, sitting on the bed again to lace his boots, as Mac picked up the major’s webbing and checked it for magazines before holding it ready for the man to shrug into.

  “The boys ready?”

  “Smiffy’s on the door,” Mac told him. “Dez has gone to rouse the others.”

  That made sense to Downes. Smiffy was still limping from the sprained ankle he’d given himself kicking the head half off a Screecher, so Dez being the runner was the sensible choice.

  “Major?” snapped a crisp voice from the lower floor of the small house. “Major?”

  “Here!” Downes answered in a clipped voice that was all business. He appeared at the top of the stairs to see Captain Palmer at the foot of them, similarly dressed for battle. He saw the anger and concern in the younger man’s eyes and felt for him; they’d been through hell enough already, and the responsibilities heaped on the man who should, by rights, be in command of a section of main battle tanks, had so often threatened to be too much for him to bear. “Your men?”

  “Half on patrol on the north coast, half in town,” Palmer answered, hesitating before he anticipated the next question. “No way to get word to them, I’m afraid.”

  “Has anyone sent word to Colonel Kelly yet?”

  “The Colonel was the one who sent word to us, Major.” Before Downes could respond, a knock on the open door grabbed their attention. Maxwell was there, eyes wide with the same fear and indignant rage that his captain mirrored.

  “Men are forming now, Sir,” he reported. “What’s our orders?” Palmer looked to Downes, as though admitting that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Dez reappeared at that point with steam emanating from his exposed head and face into the cold night air.

  “Locals are awake and getting out. I’ve told everyone to form up in the little town square thing by the pubs.” Downes nodded to acknowledge the report but Dez wasn’t finished.

  “Couple of the local boys are fishermen,” he went on, “reckon we can get to St Kilda through the Outer Hebrides if we can get enough people into boats.”

  “Where?” Palmer asked, confused.

  “You’ve heard of the Deep Sea Range?” Downes asked. Swirling information about missile ranges in their remote northern areas.

  “We… we have people there?”

  “Unmanned base,” Mac explained as he dragged the bags of spare equipment and ammunition from the corner of the room. Dez slung his MP5 and hefted the GPMG taken so long ago from one of Maxwell’s abandoned Spartan wagons.

  “Defensive position?” Palmer asked.

  “We can line everyone up at the docks with our backs to the sea,” Dez answered. “Other than that, there are multiple approaches. If it was armour or vehicles, we’d stand a chance, but…” he shrugged to indicate that the Screechers could come at them any way they liked.

  “Do it,” Downes said before turning back to Palmer. “Is there anyone we can send in a vehicle to fetch your men back?” Palmer looked at Maxwell, knowing that he couldn’t afford to lose him, if he wanted the men and the civilians kept in check. He turned back to the major and drew himself up.

  “Yes, there is.”

  “What the bloody hell is all this noise about?” Oliver Simpkins-Palmer complained as he yanked open the door to investigate the shouting and banging which had woken him. Everywhere he looked, he saw people running, carrying children and possessions in a state of panic.

  “We have a deployment, eh?” croaked an elderly voice as a private from a Scottish infantry regiment led the mostly senile old man down the stairs.

  “That’s right, Colonel,” he said reassuringly, “we need to get you in the fight. Show the lads how it’s done.”

  “Splendid!” Colonel Tim crowed from inside the multiple layers of knitted clothing he was wearing to counter the ill-health that had afflicted him since arriving on Skye. He saw the second lieutenant and tried to wave his family claymore towards him. “Blighters want another crack at us, Palmer!” he cackled. “Get your hat on and grab a revolver.”

  Oliver Palmer didn’t bother answering, having lost all patience with the old man shortly after arriving on the island and realising he held no power there. He’d spent the subsequent time doing very little, as his brother had removed even the small amount of responsibility bestowed on him, preferring instead to trust the royal marine lieutenant in his place.

  “Olly,” the voice of his brother snapped. He turned to see him dressed for battle and wearing a hard look of resolve.

  “Julian,” he answered, one lip curling in jealous derision. “Come to mock the unemployed?”

  “Olly, I need your help.” The words shocked the young man into forgetting his arrogance.

  “What’s happening?”

  “There’s been an outbreak on the west coast of the island,” Palmer Senior told him quietly, “our American friends are either dead or have abandoned us. We have to make a stand and consider fleeing the island.”

  “What? And go where? Are you sure?” he bombarded his brother with questions, all of which were ignored.

  “Can you find Lloyd and the others? They’re patrolling the north coast.” Younger brother fixed elder with a hard look, as if suggesting his brother only wanted him when the officer he rated as a better soldier wasn’t available. The fact that he was being sent to fetch his preferred replacement only added insult to the injury he felt he had been dealt. Before he could say anything, his older brother recognised the look on his face and grabbed his shirt with both fists. He took three hard p
aces forwards to slam the second lieutenant into the interior wall.

  “This is no time for your childish jealousy,” he snarled. “How many times have we come through the fire against the odds? How many? The one time you were asked to do any real soldiering, you did well. So why the hell can’t you just do what I’m asking of you without the bile?” Oliver shoved his brother back to break the grip and stepped up with the same savage look in his eyes.

  “Real soldiering? Like seeing to the civilians and keeping the mad old bat of a Colonel out of your way? Like managing the lists of supplies while you send sergeants out in charge of patrols?”

  “Yes,” Julian answered with the same vehemence. “All of those activities you think are boring, that you think are beneath your lofty station”—he sneered those words at him—“that is real soldiering; doing the hard work that doesn’t win you a blasted medal.”

  The two brothers stared at one another for a few seconds until their anger began to abate.

  “Please, Olly, go and get our men back and let’s save as many people as we can.” Oliver drew himself up, adding a very military bearing to his stance, and he accepted his brother’s orders.