Z-Series | Book 6 | Z-Endgame

by Hatchett

  They passed a hand-sprayed sign on the side of the road saying, ‘Slow down’ then another a few metres later saying, ‘Toll ahead – 1 mile’.

  Mamba glanced at Ahmed with a casual shrug, as if this were going to be a complete waste of time.

  Mamba thought things through, the convoy getting closer and closer to the barricade.

  “Er, Boss?” Basir said.

  “What?”

  “They look rough.”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “Well, they look like bikers. Lots of leather, chrome, helmets, baseball bats.”

  “Scary then?”

  “A bit.”

  Mamba laughed.

  “Pussy! How far now?” Mamba asked.

  “A few hundred metres.”

  “Slow right down. Stop well afore the barricade. ‘Bout fifty metres or so. Dev, get close ta me,” he ordered as he quickly closed the gap to Basir’s truck and remained close to the rear bumpers. “The rest of ya behind Dev, stop now, get out ‘n circle ‘round. Nice ‘n quiet ‘n nice ‘n slow. Make sure ya ain’t seen.”

  “What we doin’,” Ahmed asked.

  “What d’ya think, numb nuts!” Mamba retorted. “We’re goin’ ta fuckin’ take ‘em out.”

  “They might have more people ‘n other weapons we can’t see.”

  “Fer fuck’s sake, Ahmed, yer always fuckin’ worryin’ ‘bout things these days. We’ll find out soon enough ‘n deal wiv it if it happens.”

  Ahmed checked the magazines on the MP5’s in the footwell, put a few more spare clips into his pockets and slipped off the safeties. He checked his knives and pistols. Next, he pulled a jar of blood and guts from his rucksack on the floor and started liberally applying the contents all over himself before spreading some over Mamba.

  “What they doin’, Basir?” Mamba asked.

  He couldn’t see shit past the enormous truck a few feet in front of him, the rear end filling the whole of his windscreen. He didn’t dare glance out of his side window in case Basir braked suddenly.

  “Manning the barricades, guns pointed our way.”

  “Tell me when yer ‘bout ta stop.”

  By now they were crawling along at five miles an hour. Mamba turned to Ahmed.

  “Get out ‘n get on top of Basir’s truck.”

  “What ya gonna do?”

  “Wait ‘n see.”

  Ahmed didn’t move.

  “What the fuck ya waitin’ fer?” Mamba barked.

  “Fer ya ta fuckin’ stop, what do ya think?” Ahmed retorted.

  “Fer fuck’s sake Ahmed, I could walk faster ‘n this. Ya need ta get up there afore we stop.”

  Ahmed huffed but did as he was told, opening the door, and jumping out with a spare walkie talkie and slinging an MP5 over his shoulder as the car continued crawling forwards. He closed the door and ran to the back of Basir’s truck and started climbing.

  “Fifty metres…forty…thirty…twenty…ten…” Basir counted down before stopping.

  “Basir, ya do the talkin’. Try ‘n lure ‘em out.”

  Mamba grabbed an MP5 and was out of the door within seconds, dropping to the floor and crawling under Basir’s truck. Basir shut down the truck’s engine and all became fairly quiet and still, just the sound of the breeze whipping past the truck, the engine ticking as it cooled, the odd grunt coming from further away. Mamba hadn’t even considered that there might be zombies nearby, and wouldn’t have worried if there was, but it was obvious the toll area had been cleared of them. Not surprising. It wouldn’t have been good for business if the victims got munched before they could pay the toll, whatever that happened to be.

  Mamba scraped and shuffled along towards the front of the truck, every little noise sounding far louder in his ears than it actually was, but it didn’t stop him cautiously looking from side to side as he crawled.

  “Get out!” came from somewhere ahead, clearly a guy’s voice, deep and brash, and obviously using a bullhorn.

  After a few seconds, Mamba heard Basir open his door then saw the bottom half of his legs as he touched the ground a few feet away. Basir stood there quietly, waiting, giving Mamba and the others as much time to manoeuvre as possible.

  “What have we got here, then?” came from the bullhorn. “A fucking Paki with a big truck. Well, Paki, we heard you coming for the last half hour. Trucks are noisy when there isn’t any other sound around. Big mistake. Now you’ve gotta pay the piper. What’s in the truck?”

  Basir didn’t reply but stood stock still.

  “You better start cooperating, Paki, or the lead’s gonna fly,” he said in a mock drawl.

  ‘Lead’s gonna fly?’ Mamba thought. Who the fuck was this prick? He’d obviously watched too many shit films with shit clichés. Mamba almost laughed.

  “I’m not a Paki,” Basir shouted back, as if offended. “I’m a Turk.”

  “I don’t give a shit, man. You all look the same to me,” came back. “I repeat, what’s in the truck, Paki?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why don’t I believe you? Big truck like that isn’t going to be empty. Try again.”

  Mamba turned the volume down on his walkie talkie.

  “See anythin’?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah, ‘bout fifty people up ahead,” Ahmed confirmed. “Jus’ standin’ ‘round wavin’ guns ‘n shit.”

  “Scary?”

  Ahmed laughed lightly.

  “Not even close.”

  “Ya got a shot?”

  “Yeah, man.”

  Mamba couldn’t see too far ahead; he didn’t want to crawl too far and be spotted, especially as all eyes would be aimed towards the truck. He’d edged next to the massive left-hand wheel at the back of the tractor unit, hoping it would give him some cover. He scanned from side to side, seeing the wheels and lower bodywork of other vehicles on either side. Until now, he hadn’t realised that the path to the barricade was straight up the centre lane of the motorway. Then a thought struck him; they were trapped in a gauntlet with no way out. A trap.

  He quickly looked around again and although nothing was moving, he felt the hairs on his arms and neck rise and felt a churning sensation in the pit of his stomach. Maybe it was his imagination getting the better of him and he was seeing something that simply wasn’t there, but all his senses were telling him that something wasn’t right.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement and turned just in time to see legs creep up behind Basir. Although he couldn’t see above their kneecaps, Mamba could imagine from the way the man moved and pulled Basir back, that he had a knife to his throat. All done quickly and quietly. A second figure suddenly appeared on Mamba’s side of the truck and he heard a voice ordering the two other occupants of the vehicle to get down. A third figure appeared in front of Basir and it sounded like he was rifling through pockets and removing metallic items, probably his gun and knives. Mamba switched back to his side of the truck and saw a second pair of legs on that side too, both waiting for the occupants to get down.

  Mamba remembered who was travelling with Basir and smiled. These fucking robbers were going to get more than they bargained for. The question was what he was going to do. Then he wondered where the fuck they had come from. He heard a car door slam shut a few metres away and it became obvious where they had come from. They had heard the convoy and hidden in the vehicles on either side of the route, waiting to spring the trap.

  “Let’s go see what we’ve got in the back,” said the man holding Basir, dragging him backwards.

  Mamba thought quickly. They clearly weren’t aware of him and Ahmed. That meant they would have the element of surprise. He clicked the walkie talkie.

  “Anyone got eyes on the truck?”

  “Yeah, Boss,” Dev came back.

  “Where are ya?”

  “Behind a car a few rows back.”

  “OK. What’s happenin’?”

  “Two men on Basir, can’t see the other side.”

  “Two m
ore on Faruk and Ismet,” came from Emre.

  “Where’s the rest of the men?”

  “Fanning out as ordered,” Umit said, a little out of breath.

  “Good. Get yer weapons ready ‘n wait fer the screams.”

  “What screams?” Umit asked, but Mamba had already turned the walkie talkie off and was crawling quickly towards the back of the truck.

  Mamba got there just as Basir and the two men with him turned the rear corner and walked to the rear door handles.

  Mamba smiled, looking at their legs. Decisions, decisions. He considered shooting their kneecaps, and whilst that would be fun, it was a little easy. On the other hand, slicing their Achilles tendons might take too long and leave Basir in danger. Kneecaps it was, then.

  Mamba slid both of his bowie knives out and carefully placed them on the ground well in front of him. He switched to his MP5 and checked the safety was off and it was set to single shot. Then he edged closer until he could almost touch the legs of the men in front of him, a wide grin spread across his face. The man on his left first, followed by the man on the right. Hit the knees closest to Basir so they both fell towards each other rather than away.

  Mamba raised the MP5, placed it near the first man’s knee and pulled the trigger, then quickly swung it to the second man and did the same.

  The shots were silenced, but the screaming wasn’t. Both men crumpled to the ground, all thoughts of their own weapons and what was in the back of the truck long forgotten.

  As both men hit the ground, they had a brief vision of hell; a scarred and bloody face with grinning white teeth leaning over them, a wickedly sharp-looking knife in each hand and already descending towards their faces.

  Basir crouched down, smiling at Mamba. The smile faltered as he saw Mamba’s insane-looking visage looking back.

  “Well, don’t fuckin’ stand there lookin’ all goofy, get yer fuckin’ weapons!” Mamba shouted, before swivelling and starting to crawl back towards the front of the truck.

  As Mamba’s first muffled shots were fired and the screaming started, Faruk and Ismet had only just reached the ground after climbing out of the cab. They used the sudden distraction to slash the throats of the two men in front of them, spraying arterial blood in all directions. They quickly grabbed the bodies and used them as shields as they backed away from the firing line.

  Ahmed used the opportunity to take out the guy with the bullhorn. One shot and the man’s head exploded, showering blood, bone, and brain matter all over his nearby comrades.

  Shots were fired back haphazardly, but there were no real targets to aim at. Ahmed started picking off the bikers one at a time until they realised what was happening and ducked down behind their barricade.

  Basir and Dev were moving between the cars, looking for anyone else who was hiding.

  Mamba was about to shout to the bikers to give themselves up when he heard several motorbikes starting up and roaring off. He crawled from under the truck and sprinted for the barricade. Fifty metres in about seven seconds. Hardly world record pace, but he was laden down with combat gear and weapons, so it wasn’t a bad effort in the circumstances.

  He jumped onto the barricade and hauled himself up, no thought that he might be walking into another trap. At the top, he brought up his MP5, flicking the switch to fully automatic and spotting several figures running towards their own hogs. He raised the weapon and started shooting, spraying those fleeing. A few seconds later he was joined by Ahmed and the number of bullets doubled. Within seconds, their guns clicked empty.

  Still looking around, Mamba and Ahmed both automatically switched back to single shot and replaced their now empty magazines for full ones. Several lucky bikers managed to roar off during the pause in gunfire, but there were still a dozen or so trying to crawl to safety. Mamba and Ahmed took their time picking them off, and once they were certain there was no one still alive, scanned ahead for the fleeing bikers.

  By the time Mamba and Ahmed looked up, the fleeing bikers were out of range and turning off the motorway where there shouldn’t have been any gap in the crash barriers. The bikes roared down a short, bumpy embankment onto a level, grassy field. They counted the bikes as they raced across the grass perpendicular to where they were watching.

  “Seventeen,” Ahmed said.

  “Sixteen,” Mamba replied.

  They were both silent for a few seconds as they recounted.

  “Seventeen,” Ahmed confirmed.

  “Nah, eighteen.”

  “Seventeen. Yer double countin’ somewhere, man.”

  “How can I double count ‘n get sixteen when you get seventeen, arsehole?”

  “Ya musta missed one the first time.”

  “Well, they keep fuckin’ movin’.”

  “Ya don’t say,” Ahmed said, sarcastically.

  “Fuck ya!” Mamba shouted.

  “Jus’ ‘cos ya can’t count prop’ly.”

  “Bollocks.”

  Mamba looked ahead of the bikes, seeing a well-worn trail heading towards what looked like a farm in the middle of nowhere about a kilometre or so away. As he watched, figures appeared to his left and started shooting at the bikes. Some of his men who had spread out and were now joining in the fun.

  Two of the bikers were hit, their machines turning at an unnatural angle as the men were thrown to the ground. The machines flipped end over end before crunching into a stationery pile of twisted metal.

  The other bikers quickly veered away to get out of range then circled back around towards the farmhouse as more shots erupted from that direction. Shotgun blasts by the sound of them, not likely to do any damage at that distance, but it didn’t stop Mamba’s men falling back down to the turf for cover.

  “That was fun,” Ahmed remarked.

  “Ain’t over yet, bro,” Mamba replied with a grin.

  He grabbed his walkie talkie.

  “Surround the farm,” he ordered and watched as some of his men started crawling directly towards the farm, while others spread out to form a rough perimeter.

  Mamba looked at the dead bodies on the ground in front of him. Mostly men but also a few women lying at various unnatural angles. He eyed the bikes, a smile forming on his face.

  “Fancy a ride, bro?”

  Ahmed smiled in response.

  51

  Day 28 – 15:30

  M4

  Mamba headed towards a Harley Davidson hog, a low-slung machine with the seat almost touching the ground and the fat rear wheel at the same time. He grabbed the higher handlebars, booted the kickstand, and swung his leg over and sat down.

  Ahmed went straight to a newish looking Yamaha sports bike, all modern with bright red paintwork and chrome everywhere.

  “Ya look like somethin’ outta ‘Easy Rider’,” Ahmed remarked as he glanced over. “Watch ya don’t get friction burns on yer arse.”

  “What’s ‘Easy Rider’?” Mamba asked.

  “Film.”

  “Any good?”

  “Dunno, ain’t seen it.”

  “How’d ya know then?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Fuckin’ useless.”

  “At least I know what it is.”

  “’N what good has that done ya?”

  Ahmed shrugged and fired up his machine, drowning out any further comments from Mamba. He shot off down the road, following the route the other bikes had taken and soon heard the loud throaty grumble of Mamba and his machine quickly closing the gap behind him.

  They found the gap in the barrier and turned off the road onto the embankment, Ahmed managing the feat with ease and Mamba struggling to control the hog, almost flipping it over when the ground suddenly flattened out at the bottom. Undeterred, Mamba opened the throttle and sped past Ahmed, sticking his middle finger in the air as he went.

  They sped along the worn path towards the farm, watching as their men slowly encroached and circled the property. At a few hundred metres out, Mamba suddenly braked and stopped, switched off the engine, kic
ked the stand and stood eyeing the farm. Ahmed was taken by surprise by the sudden braking and had to swerve to avoid a collision, but he soon had the nimble bike under control and swung back around to where Mamba had stopped.

  “Wake up, Ahmed,” Mamba said, as Ahmed switched off his machine.

  “Ya coulda fuckin’ warned me,” Ahmed shot back. “We ain’t got any protection ‘n could’ve broken summat.”

  “Pussy.”

  As Ahmed wandered over, a couple more shots rang out. Ahmed jumped out of his skin and quickly ducked, as Mamba started laughing.

  “Fuck me, Ahmed, if ya hear the fuckin’ shot then it missed.”

  “Not necessarily,” Ahmed countered. “Ya could be wounded.”

  “Not from a fuckin shotgun at this distance. More chance of shaggin’ the Queen.”

  “Wouldn’t wanna. Anyway, they might have a rifle.”

  “Good point. Where’s ours?”

  “Back at the truck.”

  “Well, they ain’t no fuckin’ use there Ahmed. Go ‘n fetch a couple.”

  “Why don’t we use these?” Ahmed said, indicating the MP5 he was holding.

  “Duh, ‘cos they ain’t as accurate this far out. Off ya go. Come on, chop, chop. We ain’t got all day.”

  Ahmed shook his head and headed back to his bike.

  “’N bring a rocket launcher,” Mamba added.

  Ahmed stopped and turned.

  “How the fuck am I s’posed ta carry it all on a fuckin bike?”

  “I’m sure yer’ll figure summat out, ya bein’ so fuckin’ clever ‘n all. Oh, ‘n get the glasses.”

  “Anythin’ else?” Ahmed asked, sarcastically.

  “Nah, should be good fer now.”

  Mamba smiled and watched Ahmed get back on his bike and ride away, then turned and focused on the farmhouse. He was really looking forward to this. The fuckers were dead, they just didn’t know it yet.

  Ahmed was back within ten minutes, stopping his bike next to Mamba and passing him all the gear he’d grabbed from the Range Rover.

  As Mamba put the gear on the ground and sorted it out, Ahmed parked and switched off his bike.

  “Fancy a shootin’ game?” Mamba asked.

  “Yeah, why not,” Ahmed replied. “What’s the rules?”