In The End (Book 1): In The End

by Stevens, GJ

  Lifting from deck and out into the darkness it was clear to see the power hadn't returned. The only lights were those moving along the roads, most heading north in the same general direction as us. The ground was a tapestry of red lights snaking around like spidery nerves.

  Passing Plymouth, the power cut had worsened. We hit Exeter before we saw street lights and buildings lit. The M5 motorway was at a standstill, both sides of the road full of cars trying to go in the same direction; six long lines of stationary tail lights.

  We settled back down on the ground at Yeovilton, ours among only a few of the line of Merlins which stopped, the rest heading onwards. They were going to London, but only at a guess.

  By now it was clear there was a mass evacuation. We were an air bridge, a quick and easy way out for those higher up the ranks. I tried to keep my thoughts away from my family back home.

  None of us were surprised when we were turned back to the air, to return three times more. The base more desolate with each arrival.

  Landing for the fourth refuel, we were relieved, but confined to our quarters, not allowed to leave the base.

  I tried Skype the moment I got into my bunk, but nothing was going through. There was no connection. I tried the phone; all the lines were out, but only the externals. I rang around and quickly found they'd been disconnected. No contact was allowed with the outside while the operation was underway.

  A senior officer's voice cut into the call. I hung up and tried to take his advice to get some rest. I was dog tired.

  A fist woke me as it hammered on the door. It was Stubbs. We had five minutes to get to the operations room.

  I tried Skype again, but still there was no connection. I didn't bother with the phone. We arrived in the ops room to find it packed full, the admiral from last night still in his fatigues, looking like he hadn't had a moments sleep. Like the rest of the ops room, his eyes were red, sunken and slow moving.

  He finally told us what the hell was going on.

  27

  Every other word told us they were making most of this up, assumptions based on the limited data the government had gathered in the short space of time since the world had gone to shit.

  The cause of the power cut was certainly an educated guess, thought to be an explosion at a distribution site. Most of us standing here had seen for ourselves the electricity was out across the entire South West. The details were hazy because they were in a hurry to tell us a surge of power from the unbalanced grid blew out the protection to an MOD containment facility in Truro. Think Boscombe Down, but on steroids. The admiral's exact words.

  The upshot was the release of a contagion. A virus or bacteria. They didn't know which and none of us were doctors. We couldn't tell the difference. All they knew was it was important enough to trigger a huge evacuation the like of which had never been seen in a western country.

  Protocol was out the window. Shouts came from gathered officers; people wanted to know what the contagion did and why there was such a panic. When the responses didn't come, more questions fired their way. Should we be worried about our families, came the chorus?

  The admiral cleared his throat and looked at his notes, but we all knew he was buying time for hard answers. And they came. The contagion acted fast, infecting as it blew through the air.

  “What about us?” came a cry from near the front.

  “You're all fine. We would know by now. The contagion is too heavy to drift at anything greater than a few metres off the ground,” he said, and a rumble of discontent rose again.

  “And we predict with great certainty the exposure was nowhere near Culdrose when the air bridge was in operation.” His words didn't help the murmuring. No one bought his bullshit.

  Still, he told us the contagion was already changing. It was no longer airborne; the cold had killed that element off but was still spreading by contact alone.

  He told how the infected would become stuporous, unable to converse, could barely control themselves. The pathogen attacks the hormones, sending adrenaline, testosterone, and cortisol flooding around the system. The mix sends the victims into fits of irrational anger.

  Then came the answer to the question no one wanted to hear.

  There was yet to be a cure.

  Everywhere I looked I could see confounded expressions, their fixed stares not changing as the admiral continued to tell us the evacuation went long into the night, stopping as the first signs of the virus showed up in the lines.

  “What happened to those people who didn't get out?” I said.

  All eyes fell on me, then back to the admiral.

  He let the pause fill the space until forced to answer by the rising discontent from the audience.

  “It is our understanding all those not infected have been successfully evacuated.”

  There was an uneasy silence across the room. No one questioned it. No one wanted it to be a lie and before we could find the courage we found out the reason we were being told.

  They were sending us back into the exclusion zone.

  We didn’t need convincing; were more than willing to go behind the line and take the only action we knew would stop our families from suffering.

  It was night again as we stepped outside. The chopper was heavy with ammo, stacked rifles and a general-purpose machine gun.

  We took to the air and after half an hour, began cruising around our designated sector. The place was properly dark. Night vision picked up a few glowing white spots of light, but nothing like we were looking for. It looked like the admiral might just have been right.

  We flew for the four hours our load would allow, with the worst sight being the fires, the sky glowing orange at each turn.

  We were glad to refuel with no shots fired, glad to take a quick break, even if just to reassure ourselves the air station was still operational. Our houses were fine, too. A short diversion showed the lights still on in each and served us well as a reminder why we were doing this job.

  We stayed at the base for another couple of hours after a debrief replayed what we'd found. We reported the locations of the fires, but not much else. We were told the other crews had come back the same and were soon back in the air, lighter this time. We'd offloaded half the ammo and the grenades to give us maybe an hour more in the air.

  We were two hours into the second run and the time had gone much like before. The unnatural green of the night vision straining our eyes, we caught the first signs of what we hadn't wanted to see.

  In the middle of the road, two figures fought, neither taking notice as we flew closer and watched their aggression rage. It was clear one of the pair was stronger than the other, only the weaker taking notice as our unmissable din flew over.

  Circling back, I set a hover, letting Spicer take a good look. He climbed to his stomach as he called for me to get us closer. He wanted to see for himself and narrated as one of the infected overpowered the other as he bit down into his arms.

  I had him repeat over the radio and he did, adding detail. The stronger was biting, ripping flesh with his teeth.

  I put distance between us and Spicer let a single burst release. The chatter of the gun took me back to Afghan; took me back to those days I had such mixed feelings about, but as each round flew from the machine gun, I knew we were closer to keeping our families safe.

  After another hour of flying and even knowing what we were looking for, we were still unprepared as we came across a slow-moving glow of heat on the horizon.

  With the first signs of the morning at our backs, we each removed our goggles and saw what could only be described as a herd. Tens of people, maybe a hundred, we couldn’t take a more accurate count. They were walking, stumbling, falling into each other. It was clear these people were in pain.

  Stubbs reminded us in our ears; there was no cure.

  We had a job to do. We had to protect our own.

  I called it in but knew what the response would be and had already turned the airframe side on, thinking of
my kids, thinking of my wife as Spicer racked back the slide and began decimating the crowd.

  28

  At first it felt like an RPG strike. In Afghan, we'd been told of a Chinook pilot who'd survived such an attack, the grenade exploding moments before its target. The door gunner had somehow hit it mid-air, but he'd paid the price. A scrap of shrapnel from the shoulder-fired launcher shredding his neck after missing his body armour. Dead, because he flinched left, not right.

  It was only as I swung us around we saw the fireworks rising from the ground. I set about scouring for the target, the air between us showered by colourful exploding sprays. I pivoted the door side-on for Spicer to take his aim. It wasn't long before I heard through my ear the poor infected bugger had been laid to rest.

  What happened next is still unclear. Turning us away and heading to sweep up the remains of our last targets, there was an explosion in the rear and the world went black. Another ignition came soon after. There was no way Spicer could have survived.

  The next few moments barely registered. My scolding-hot world rolled around as if I was in a tumble dryer, then, hit in the face, I was out cold.

  I woke upside down and couldn't move my neck. Must have blacked out a second time as I released my straps, not realising the consequences. Crumpled in a heap on my head, I struggled to my feet. I couldn't hear anything but a deep ring in my ears.

  Stubbs was dead with a length of metal protruding from his right eye, his arms hanging down from his side. Blood poured in a steady stream.

  The upside-down cabin was mostly empty. Spicer gone, the mount for the MG still in place on what was now the roof. The weapon itself was nowhere.

  Stumbling out of the door, I saw the scattered contents of what had been inside and my gaze followed the path where we'd rolled, staring at the grass crushed and mud churned.

  The world swam before me. Nausea rose and fell in waves. My feet wouldn’t place where I asked, like the wiring in my head had been swapped around. The sleeve of my flight suit came back red as I wiped it across my face, contrasting dark against the olive green. I touched my forehead and watched in slow motion as blood ran down my hand. Letting go, the warmth trickled down my face, spreading like warm chocolate from a fountain.

  Soon, parts of my senses regained. I recalled how I'd come to stand with the world upside down. Thoughts turned to the reason I had a gun strapped to my thigh and remembered we hadn't taken care of all the infected.

  With my head swaying under the weight of my helmet as I bent, I slid the Glock from the holster, pulled back the slide and took my first steps onto the solid ground.

  First things first, I had to find and pay respects to my friend.

  29

  LOGAN

  “If you can understand me, don't move a muscle,” the man in the olive-green flight suit shouted, blood spraying from his mouth as I crouched by his dead colleague. I listened carefully to the words he exaggerated as if he was in a foreign land.

  With the rest of my body still, I let my fingers creep forward to touch the cold of the pistol still sat in the dead man’s holster.

  With my gaze fixed on his scarlet face, I watched his unsteady walk as he swayed forward in slow, careful steps. I caught sight of the camouflage Union Jack on his chest pocket and I couldn't get my mind around the way he was acting. He spoke with an English accent, from the south, Kent probably, but he talked like he was part of an invading army. Did he know we were on the same side?

  I had only seconds to think. I could slide the gun free, could take a chance he wouldn't react in time. I could leap away, scrabble up the side of the valley. He was in no state to give chase. His aim would be terrible, but I couldn't discount luck. He was a trained killer; any hit would be bad news, no chance of a hospital visit before infection set in.

  Or I could just kneel here, let him take charge, talk myself out of him finishing the job while I hoped the others came back. Maybe Andrew might have another rocket up his sleeve.

  I couldn't do either. I had to take charge. I was where they'd put me and I wouldn't let them down. Anyway, they wouldn't come running if they heard a shot. They'd left me to take care of the suffering on my own, whichever way I chose.

  Raising my hands in the air, I saw the moment the guy clocked his colleague laying on the ground unmoving. I watched what I thought was a flinch, saw him stand tall, pushing away the emotion.

  “I said don't move,” came the bloodied voice.

  I was already standing, thankful he hadn't shot me yet, knowing the more time went on, the more my chances extended. What else could I think?

  Naomi's words came into my head. He had orders to protect, to stop the infection.

  “I'm not infected,” I blurted out, losing the battle to keep calm.

  The guy didn't react, other than to slant his head to the side.

  “What's your name?” I said, moving my right foot an inch forward.

  “Stay where you are,” he replied, blood dripping from his chin in an elongated string.

  I held myself still, concentrating on his face. He had a gash along the length of his forehead, blood still washing down into his mouth. If I could last long enough, this guy would bleed to death.

  Movement caught in my vision from below. I stepped to the side. Stepped back; my earlier question answered.

  * * *

  COMMANDER LANE

  “If you can understand me, don't move a muscle,” I shouted. I exaggerated the words in case some vestigial intelligence remained in the figure whose shape I could just about make out crouching over a mound of earth as my lids worked overtime to clear the blood from my eyes. Each time I could finally see, a blanket of fresh darkness smeared across.

  In the last snapshot he wasn't moving, but still I stepped forward. I couldn't wait. I needed to shorten the odds. My aim last month was only just good enough to get my licence renewed without the world clouded, swaying side to side.

  He was watching me, concentrating on my actions. Each time my view cleared I expected to see him pouncing forward, racing to chew my face off. I was dreading the moment I would have to shoot. The moment I would find out if I could live up to my friend's bravery.

  Instead, he watched, his movements slow. I shouted again and he stopped. He understood language, or maybe it was just my tone and now he looked like he was mouthing words.

  Was he talking or growling? I couldn't tell. My hearing was still destroyed, just a constant ring.

  I edged forward; there was still a lot of distance to cover. If he had any sense left he would have run, not stood in my headlights staring back, moving his mouth around like he was chewing gum.

  “Stay where you are,” I said, straightening the gun. And here it was, the inevitable.

  He'd jumped forward as my vision cleared, but despite it blurring all too soon, my mind told my finger to pull the trigger. The words repeating over. I wouldn’t comply.

  With the next snapshot my adrenaline spiked higher. The guy had stepped back, moved to the side and out of shot.

  My gaze flinched down to the mound. Had it moved? Was it twisting around?

  30

  LOGAN

  We were gathered in the woods when Lane woke, that was his name according to the badge on his breast pocket. A good hour had past since we'd dragged his body from beside the road, since I'd taken his gun as he slumped and I dealt with what had become of his colleague.

  I'd been mistaken. When the body at my feet moved, rolled over with his arms and legs loose, his eyes white and teeth bared, it was the first time Lane had seen him. He knew what it had become. I'd watched as he pawed at his face, blood rolling down his forehead and into his eyes as he took his first glimpse. It could have been the loss of blood, or the shock, but he collapsed in a heap.

  Andrew arrived under Naomi and Zoe's shoulders soon after, questions alight on their features with my hand pressing a bandage on the face of the guy they were yet to meet.

  We agreed making camp in the woods was nec
essary and, ferrying Andrew and Lane, we did just that. Naomi and I made a fire after a five-minute walk in.

  She waited until we were alone before she apologised and I told her with a thin smile there was nothing for her to apologise for. I wanted her to have been right too. I returned with an apology of my own for my heated words only moments before.

  With the clear air and warmth more than welcome, the two pistols were split between myself and Cassie, who took guard as the rest of the able-bodied scavenged what we could from the crash site. None of us had the courage to visit Matt to gather what he'd stowed in his pack, to check if he was resting.

  We sat around the fire getting warm, patching up the two injured. Naomi gave me glances, a slight smile each time she tended to our air force man.

  We were okay, I thought and I tried to relax by the fire. Tried not to flinch at every sound in the woods, every crack of twigs or whistle of wind. I took comfort we were deep enough inside. We would hear anyone, living or otherwise, approach from far out.

  “I'm sorry,” were his first words, stopping to take a drop of water offered from Naomi's bottle. He looked so much different without the scarlet mask; our age, maybe a little older. Weather worn, face down-turned.

  “I'm sorry,” he repeated, his gaze falling on the gun resting on my lap.

  Our gazes caught and he said the words again.

  “You didn't know we weren't infected,” I said, sharing a look with Naomi. “But now I need you to tell us everything.”

  And he did.

  “They lied,” I said, trying to hold back the anger I didn’t mean for him.