The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3)

by Luke Duffy

  The hatch was suddenly flung open, and the face of Greg, the tank’s commander, appeared from the dark interior. Al wasted no time, and without giving the man the chance to get out of the way, he threw his body in through the hatch, colliding with Greg and tumbling into the gunner’s position and bowling him over. Amongst the growls and curses of the tankers, Al turned and looked up to see Tina, quickly followed by Tommy, falling down towards him as the tank commander slammed the hatch shut.

  “Watch it,” Al shouted up to the tank crew, wanting to warn them of the enemy’s anti-tank weaponry. “They’ve got MILAN.”

  “We know,” Greg shouted back from within the smoky haze that filled the interior. He pulled his face away from the targeting system and loosed off another shell through the main gun. “We’ve already lost Riley and his crew to them, and we took a hit in the arse.” He looked down at Al and gave him a grin. “We couldn’t leave you out here on your own though, mate.”

  Al looked at Tommy and Tina as he lay gasping for breath with sweat pouring down over his grime covered face. He nodded to them and then back up at Greg. He was only too aware that they had been just moments from death and that the tank and its crew had saved them.

  “We appreciate that, Greg,” Al nodded back at him with gratitude and sadness in his eyes. “Sorry about Riley. He was a good bloke.”

  “Not good enough, apparently,” Greg replied and nodded solemnly. He fired the gun again, its report booming dully within the interior of the Challenger.

  “Have that, you cunt,” he sneered, and then turned his attention to his driver. “Smudge, get us the fuck out of here and don’t spare the horses this time. Their aim will get better at some point, and I don’t fancy being around when it does.”

  Smudge, the driver, threw the machine into gear and began to back away from the area, keeping their front and the thickest part of the tank’s armour pointed towards the enemy positions. Greg continued to send HESH rounds into their ranks, hoping to take out as many of them as possible before their anti-tank units corrected their aim.

  Smudge slammed on the brakes, causing everyone inside to lurch forward, and a number of yelps erupted from Tommy as his shoulder was bashed about against the numerous surfaces. As the driver swung the seventy ton vehicle around by driving the tracks in opposite directions to one another, Greg fired one last round. This time, the loader had slammed a White Phosphorous round into the chamber to provide them a smoke screen to withdraw behind. As the pale grey clouds billowed up and obscured the enemy’s view, Smudge sent the tank racing back towards their base.

  6

  Peter was sitting in the corner, cast in shadow and chewing a dry biscuit that had reached far beyond its recommended consumption date. The room was cold, with the only light and heat source being provided by the old kerosene lamp they had found in the basement. He sat with his back against the wall and one of the dust covered blankets he had found in a closet draped over his shoulders. Apart from the half pack of biscuits and a few tins of corned beef and mixed vegetables they had discovered in one of the kitchen cupboards, the house was devoid of anything else that could have been of use to them.

  He stared at the lamp in silence, slowly and thoughtlessly chewing the tasteless morsels. His mind was vacant, and his eyes stared unseeingly at the bright glow of the light. For days they had sat in the darkened house, hardly speaking a word to one another. They barely moved. The only activity they carried out were essential bodily functions. The foul stink of their urine and faeces drifted in through the open door from the next room. Using the toilet was pointless, and attempting to go outside was a virtual death sentence. Instead, they had resorted to relieving themselves in the second bedroom.

  Michael sat close to the centre of the room, trying to gain as much warmth from the inadequate lamp as he could. He rubbed his hands together and then held them in front of the glass, trying to ease the cold that was taking root in his fingertips. He was afraid to even look at his brother. He knew that Peter was still angry with him, but he wondered for just how much longer he would stay that way. He pulled the collar of his jacket up higher, enveloping his lower face and ears. He sniffed, snorting back the mucus that threatened to run out from his nose and onto his upper lip. He did not dare move his head to look at Peter, but he stole a glance to his right from the corner of his eye. The dark shape of his brother remained there, seated beneath the window in the same place he had been for what seemed like an eternity.

  Michael hunched his shoulders and wrapped his coat across his body. Holding himself in a hug with his arms across his chest, he slowly lowered himself down to his left and lay against the hard, cold floor in a foetal position. Within minutes, despite the discomfort, he was snoring gently.

  Peter looked away from the lamp and fixed his attention on his brother. He swallowed the last of his biscuit and then drew his legs up close to his body, wrapping his arms around his knees as he continued to watch the sleeping boy in front of him. He never understood how Michael could sleep so easily. It had been weeks since he himself had been able to close his eyes for longer than just a few minutes. He always awoke with a start, be it from a fleeting dream or an actual noise or movement close by.

  He was beyond feeling exhausted. He was finding it hard to function, and his mind was very close to collapse. How he had managed for this long, he had no idea. Since leaving the Isle of Wight, he had needed to remain on the highest state of alertness, looking out for the both of them. Michael, however, continued to bounce through the world like a balloon without a string, oblivious to the dangers and the consequences of his actions.

  In London, they had barely escaped with their lives. As the group of battered soldiers ran for the river, Peter and his brother had found themselves separated and cut off. The infected had swarmed in all around them, closing in from all sides, and it was sheer luck that they had stumbled upon a place where they could hide and escape. None of the fleeing soldiers had noticed it, and it was only when Michael fell into it that Peter identified the place as a potential escape route.

  While the gunfire of the surviving soldiers echoed from down at the quayside, Peter dragged Michael in the opposite direction. Hundreds of the dead were spilling in through the gates of the dockyard and heading back into the city was impossible. Their only option was the water, and he highly doubted that either of them would get far in an attempt to swim the Thames River. Still, they needed to try, and with no other choice, they headed for the water’s edge out of sheer desperation.

  Peter was down to the last few rounds in his rifle. Michael had long since lost his, and for a fleeting moment Peter considered turning the weapon on himself and his brother, but his survival instincts had gotten the better of him. While there was still a glimmer of hope at escaping the ravenous horde closing in all around them, he would cling to it and do what he could until there was no other choice.

  It was at that point that Michael had inadvertently discovered their escape route. Before reaching the water’s edge, they needed to pass through a small cordoned off area covered with a blue tarpaulin, and surrounded with black and yellow tape that warned of danger and the need for safety equipment beyond that particular point. Michael had wasted no time in charging through the taped barrier and rushed headlong through one of the flaps in the tarpaulin and disappeared from sight. An echoing scream, followed by a wet splat rang out from the other side, and Peter rushed through, weapon at the ready and expecting to find his brother grappling with one of the infected.

  What he saw was a three metre deep, concrete lined hole in the ground and Michael at the bottom, flailing in the thick gloopy clay. Peter did not bother to waste any time wondering what the hole was for, but he recognised the two tunnels leading off from the central pit. They were maintenance conduits, large enough for a man to walk through. He clambered down the rusting ladder as the first of the corpses pushed through the thick plastic sheets surrounding the site. It looked frustrated and confused, slapping its palms against the
flapping tarpaulin and the string of safety barrier tape that had become wrapped around its body. It looked down and saw Peter as he was halfway down the ladder. Without hesitation, it flung itself into the pit, landing with a heavy splash in the wet clay beside Michael and becoming stuck with its hands and legs submerged in the thick substance. It growled and thrashed, snapping its teeth at the terrified man sitting beside it and caked from head to foot in the grey mud. More of the dead were on their way, and Peter had to drag Michael to his feet and make a quick decision to which tunnel he thought they should use.

  After five days of sneaking through the streets and hugging the south bank of the river, they had finally made it out of London. Most of the infected had headed to the south of the city, converging on the soldiers that fought a losing battle against an enemy that refused to yield. As a result, the area by the river was mostly deserted, allowing Peter and Michael to make their way eastwards and eventually crossing the river on a rowing boat they had found tied up at the water’s edge. They snaked their way north through the suburbs, creeping through buildings and hugging the shadows, before eventually hitting the lush, green, and wide open rural areas around Watford.

  By then, Peter had lost his rifle, having run out of ammunition during their escape, firing the last of his bullets at corpses that were too close to avoid. He had kept hold of it in the hope of finding more rounds. Unfortunately, the weapon had been dropped when a crowd of rotting cadavers ambushed them, howling with excitement and snapping their teeth as they lunged towards the two living human beings. Sprinting for their lives, the rifle slipped from Peter’s grasp and was left behind, leaving them completely unarmed. It did not matter, Peter reasoned to himself afterwards. He doubted that they would have found more ammunition, and even if they had, the noise that the rifle made attracted the dead from miles around. However, while feeling a moment of shame for having lost his weapon, he realised that the small amount of training he had received on the island had indeed made an impact upon him.

  The corporals, spitting venom and referring to them with names and insults that he had never heard used against human beings before, had hounded them with military rhetoric and doctrine. They never failed to point out the importance of looking after their rifles, keeping them close and ready at all times. He could still hear the snarling voice of the short, angry man who had trained… tortured, his platoon for two weeks. The aggressive and foul tempered corporal had howled down at Peter as he was forced to crawl through a pit of cold, stinking mud, holding his weapon so that it remained clean and free of the muck.

  ‘It is an extension of your worthless body, you fucking creature. It’s worth more than you are, and you will look after it as though it’s the finest pair of tits on the planet. Do you understand me, you horrible cunting wretch?’

  Now, the rifle was gone and more than likely, so was the corporal, having been swallowed up in the meat grinder that London had become. Just like the rest of his platoon, their sadistic instructors, along with their weaponry, had been lost in the battle against the dead.

  It was very likely that Peter and Michael were the only surviving members of their militia battalion. After their escape, their goal had been to reach a village just to the south of Norwich, but getting there on foot would take days, or so they thought. It was where their home was, and they hoped to find their parents there, safe and waiting for them. Michael had suggested using a car, completely ignorant of the complications involved with that option. Getting one to start in the first place after sitting idle for so long would be a struggle. Then, negotiating the blocked roads, crammed with stalled vehicles and walking dead would be virtually impossible. Peter decided that they would stick to the lanes and the countryside where the population had been much less dense, moving on foot and remaining undetected.

  On the outskirts of a small village named Broxted, just to the north of London, they had stumbled upon a pub called ‘The Prince of Wales’. There they had come face to face with a group of soldiers. At first, Peter had believed that they were going to kill him and his brother but soon realised that the men were just being cautious, making sure that there was no threat to themselves, and after a number of hours, he began to understand why that band of frightening looking troops had initially seemed so hostile and menacing towards them. During the conversations that followed, Peter explained to them about what had happened in London and how the counter offensive had failed, and the men in turn told him their story of how they had ended up there.

  The soldiers, or rather mercenaries as Peter later found out, were led by a man named Marcus. They had been trapped in Baghdad, Iraq, having been abandoned and left there by the American military; the same Americans that had hired them in the first place. With no other way of getting out, they had fought their way north through the country, across Turkey, and into Europe. They had crossed the Channel the week before from Calais and were headed for somewhere in the north-west of England where they hoped to link up with their families. They had lost a number of their friends during their months of battling their way across two continents and still had a long way to go. The strain of their journey and loss showed on the faces of the men. They looked both ferocious and saddened by what they had experienced. Peter watched them in awe. The way they talked and held themselves was frightening to him but at the same time, impressive. Only men of their skill and experience could have made it that far, and he hoped that they would make it the rest of the way.

  They had offered to take the two brothers with them, but Peter had declined, wanting to reach their home, and hopefully, find their own family. The soldiers, seeing that the two young men were unarmed and completely defenceless, had given Peter a pistol. It had just one fully loaded magazine and was all they could spare, but it was better than nothing, and Peter had felt extremely moved by the gesture.

  Marcus and his men had left the next morning, headed northwards, while Peter and Michael watched them from the windows of the pub. He hoped that they reached their goal. After going through so much and coming so far, it would be a tragedy for them to fail in their attempts to be reunited with their loved ones.

  It had taken Peter and Michael another twenty days before they were finally within reach of their hometown. During their long trek, they had been forced to make endless detours and spend long periods of time, sometimes days, hiding in ditches, ruins, and basements from the vast numbers of marauding dead that seemed to be gathering into herds within the rural areas. A walk that should have taken them only a few days took three weeks to complete, finally arriving at their home.

  They had found no trace of their parents. The house was a wreck, and although they yearned to stay there and on familiar ground, Peter could see no way of making the place safe and secure. Their village had once been a picturesque and tranquil place made up of narrow lanes and old cottages. Now, it appeared as though a hurricane had passed through it. Doors were caved inwards, and almost every window was smashed. Many of the houses had been burned, leaving nothing but scorched, black bricks and the charred skeletons of their occupants.

  Cars and trucks had been hastily flung together as barricades at each end of the village in an attempt to block the roads, but they had been of no use. Judging by the level of destruction that Peter saw around him, the dead had flooded into the small hamlet from all directions and consumed anything living that they came across. Their home was dead. There was nothing left for them there.

  While Peter sat at the curb-side trying to come up with a plan and think of what their next move should be, Michael had gone wandering through the street, rummaging amongst the litter and broken down vehicles. He did not look for anything in particular. It was more to do with him searching for something of familiarity that could remind him of how the village had once looked. The streets, although he had spent many years there, were unrecognisable now. The shops, including the baker’s where he had often bought cakes, and the Post Office where Mrs. Malone had worked since as far back as he could remember were
nothing but smashed and empty shells.

  Bones and tattered clothing stained with blood were everywhere he looked. Here and there, he could see scorch marks from where the defenders had slung their Molotov cocktails in an attempt to hold back the hordes of dead. Some of the blackened patches of ground contained fragments of human remains that continued to twitch, causing Michael’s head to spin with nausea. It was not the sight of the burned bodies that upset him, but the thought that any of them could easily be his parents.

  It was then that he saw it, sitting neatly at the side of the road, completely untouched and undisturbed by the horror that had befallen the village. It was as though it had been protected by some mysterious force, shielding it and keeping it safe from the carnage that had played out in the streets around it. The sun glinted from its metallic painted surfaces and the shining chrome of its frame. It was beautiful, and without a doubt, the prettiest thing that Michael had seen in a long time. Compared to its surroundings, it appeared totally out of place. The buildings lining the street were blackened ruins, yet the machine sitting beside the curb looked immaculate.

  He eyed it with suspicion for a moment, unsure whether or not his mind was playing a trick on him, and wondered if it really was there. He could almost hear it calling to him to come nearer and take a closer look, to touch it and feel that it was real. Michael stood and stared, licking his suddenly dry lips and rubbing his sweating hands against his filthy combat trousers. Nervously glancing to his left, he checked on his brother.

  Peter was still sitting with his arms folded and staring down at the ground, deep in thought. He had been that way for quite some time, and Michael had no idea how much longer his brother would remain that way while he worked out a plan. A slight feeling of urgency began to creep along his nervous system as he became fearful that Peter could climb to his feet at any moment and drag him away before he had the opportunity to stroke the beautiful machine.