The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3)

by Luke Duffy

  She stepped further into the gloom and looked up at the hole above her. She could not see the moon, but its glow was there, brightening the edges of the clouds that drifted by over the rooftops. She paused and listened, hoping to hear the sound of beating rotor blades from the helicopters that she longed to be currently scouring the city, searching for her and her co-pilot. She could hear nothing except the steady thump of the dead at the main door to the restaurant. Their pounding hands never gave up the beat. The dull and distant thuds would continue until they managed to break their way in. They would never tire and never grow bored.

  Somewhere in the distance, many streets away, a long and agonising moan drifted out above the city as one of the wandering corpses howled against the night. It was a deep and hollow wail, haunting and poignant. It sounded as though the soul of the creature was being tortured. For a second, she almost felt pity for the unfortunate man, but it did not last long. Regardless of what he had once been, the thing he now was would not hesitate to tear her apart, no matter how sympathetic she felt towards it.

  She shivered again and felt the cold rising up through her legs. She needed to move or she would become frozen to the spot with cold and fright. She had no choice but to continue her clearance and search for an alternate way out.

  Stealthily, she made her way around the ground floor of the building, creeping through the shadows, and occasionally, stumbling into objects that she could not see. Each time, she barely managed to stifle the scream that jammed in her throat and sat waiting for its opportunity to erupt from her mouth. Her jangled nerves were beginning to get the better of her. Her mind was constantly seeing threats that were not there. Her light flitted erratically around the room as her eyes and ears detected movement from every corner. Again, she paused. She sunk into the shadow of a corner and felt the wall behind her, acting as a psychological barrier against anything sneaking up on her from the rear. She breathed deeply, keeping her flashlight shining to her front, proving to herself that there was nothing else inside the room with her. After a minute or two, she was able to continue, but she had no idea for how much longer she would be able to keep her fear under control.

  Many of the partition walls had been destroyed or heavily damaged during the crash, so there was no need to expose herself through doorways and into the unknown. It was a simple matter of peering over the remains of the brickwork and shining her light into the next room. Nothing revealed itself to her. With each minute that passed, her immediate fears were being proven to be nothing more than her imagination.

  The glowing beam moved over the floors and walls of the adjoining rooms, and she was careful not to allow the light to touch the windows around the outer walls. Anything in the street beyond would see the illumination and be attracted towards the delicate glass of the windows. There was no doubt in her mind that the street outside was packed with the infected. She could see their ghostly shadows lurching around from beyond the frosted glass. From experience, Melanie knew that the dead did not have the intelligence to attack the windows, viewing them as an alternate way in. However, a light or her silhouette reflecting from the panes would soon convince them that the windows were indeed to be used as an entrance. From what she could hear, there were enough of the dead at the exits. She did not need to signal to any others that there were living people inside the building.

  Her sweep completed and safe in the knowledge that all the doors and windows remained intact, she headed back for the helicopter. She moved across the room rapidly, eager to reach the relative safety of the wreckage and feel Mike close by. She would sit and wait for morning, fighting against the cold, and keeping a watchful eye on her co-pilot. She was certain that by the time the sun was up, they would hear a helicopter coming to their rescue. She took comfort in the fact that Samantha was her friend and was in a position to be able to influence the senior staff back on the Isle of Wight.

  She wouldn’t leave me here, she reassured herself.

  On reaching the aircraft, Melanie placed her pistol back into its holster and clasped her flashlight between her teeth. She needed both hands to be free in order to begin the climb back into the twisted fuselage. Her upper body was through the door when Mike’s foot moved across the floor, emitting a light scraping noise that was deafening in the otherwise silence. She looked up in surprise, the light clutched between her teeth shining over Mike’s lower body. He was sitting up now, his features cast in darkness and facing in her direction.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” she said, relieved that she would not be alone. She pulled herself in further and hauled herself up so that her legs were inside.

  Mike was silent. His body did not move but remained facing her. As Melanie’s feet were firmly on the floor of the cockpit she reached up and pulled the torch from her mouth. She held it in her hand and angled it upward, illuminating his face.

  She gasped.

  His clouded, flat orbs stared back at her, but there was no indication of recognition in Mike’s gaze as the light reflected dully from his sunken eyes. His skin was ashen and drawn, and his lips had withered and turned a faint purple from the lack of blood. He did not move but continued to look at the light shining into his face, mesmerised and confused. Finally, his lips parted slightly and a long drawn out huff rasped out from between his teeth. His hand, the soft skin of the fingertips shrivelled and the nailbeds quickly turning a deep blue, reached up towards the dazzling brightness that Melanie held in her hand.

  She froze for a moment, unable to form a clear thought in her petrified mind. As the body of Mike began to move, his grasping fingers reaching out for her, her subconscious took over, and she recoiled. Before she realised what had happened, her body was flying through the air, back out through the door, and towards the floor of the restaurant. The light swirled in her hand and bounced from floor to ceiling, from cockpit to Mike. In the split second that the torchlight shone across him, she saw that he was now flinging himself out after her, his mouth agape and his arms outstretched.

  She hit the floor hard and felt a searing pain in her side as she landed against something sharp that drove itself deep into her soft flesh. She let out a yelp and rolled to the left, feeling the foreign object tear through her skin, its jagged edge scraping against her ribs and causing a torrent of agony to rip through her body and along her nervous system. A blinding flash streaked across her vision, and she howled, unable to control herself against the torturous pain that assaulted her.

  Mike’s heavy body crashed into the floor beside her with a loud thump. Dust and debris were flung up all around him causing grey clouds to drift across the beam of light that emitted from Melanie’s torch. He grunted and began to push himself upwards, dragging his knees up beneath him and turning towards the whimpering form of the living person close by. His lips curled back, and a snarl fell from his mouth.

  Melanie was crawling back away from him, kicking her feet at the floor in an attempt to gain some grip. The pain in her side was causing her mind to spin, but she could not afford to let it overwhelm her. Mike had died and was now coming after her. She needed to get some distance between them. She kept the light shining towards him as she thrust her way along the ground, the jagged piece of rusted iron that was embedded in her side sawing against her bones and tearing at the muscle.

  Again, she screamed. It was long and loud and totally beyond her control. The agony she experienced prevailed against any desire she had for stealth. The pounding at the doors increased in volume and tempo. The windows, too, began to rattle and crack in their frames as hands beat against them. The dead had heard her cries. The sounds of the living never failed to rile them and their determination to gain entry intensified.

  Mike continued to crawl after her, groaning loudly and drooling long strands of thick dark mucus from his withered lips. Her light illuminated his emaciated face and lifeless eyes as he slithered his way towards her, reaching out for her as she continued to push away.

  She turned over, gritting her teeth agains
t the torture in her side and pushed up with her hands, oblivious to the glass and shards of masonry that plunged deep into the soft skin of her palms. Climbing to her knees, she began to scurry across the debris strewn floor. After a metre or two, she jumped to her feet and hobbled towards the nearest door. She stopped, hearing the frustrated wail of Mike as she escaped from him.

  Turning around, she saw that he was now on his feet. His body was swaying animatedly as his broken leg bones grinded against one another, slowly disintegrating beneath him with loud, sickening cracks. Within a few steps, his body dropped, and he crashed back down into the dust. The remains of the bones had shattered, giving him no more support. He showed no pain or discomfort as he began to drag himself forwards, clutching at the ground with his fingers, flaying the soft skin from the bones and the nails from their beds.

  Melanie stopped. She could not run away and hide from him. She had nowhere to go. He would not give up the chase and she could not leave him like that. The creature that had once been her friend needed to be dealt with. She owed it to him, and it was for her own survival.

  Her hands reached down for her pistol. To her horror, her fingers fell upon an empty holster, the weapon having slipped from its place on her hip during the fall from the cockpit. A whimper slipped from her mouth, and her knees grew weak as her hand continued to grope for the gun that she knew was not there.

  Reluctantly, she realised that she needed to find an alternative. She moved the light away from the advancing body of Mike and scanned the ground around her feet, desperately searching for something, anything that she could use as a weapon. Close by, she saw what appeared to be the broken remains of a table leg. She winced at the pain in her side as she stepped to her left and reached for it. Pulling it free from the debris that covered it, she absentmindedly tested its weight as she raised it up towards her. She returned her attention back to the dark shape of Mike snarling up at her as he dragged his lifeless body across the floor.

  It was hard for her to breathe. The metal sticking into her side was snatching her breath away every time she moved. Added to the fear that she felt, it was virtually impossible for her to remain upright. Her body was beginning to convulse, and her head was swimming. She felt nauseous and ready to faint, but she needed to take care of Mike before she would let herself be overwhelmed by pain and shock. On shaking legs, she took a step forward.

  By now, Mike was almost upon her and was growling aggressively and snapping his teeth repeatedly. With her free hand and trembling uncontrollably, she held the light, shining it at his face as steadily as she could. She raised the makeshift club high over her shoulder. She almost dropped it as she was wracked with excruciating pain. Even the slightest movement inflicted agony upon her. With a cry of anger and despair, she brought the table leg down hard and smashed it against her co-pilot’s head.

  The weapon bounced on impact and then slid to the side, hitting the ground with a heavy thump, having just glanced the side of Mike’s skull. In the flickering light, she saw the gaping wound beneath his hairline and the deformed shape of his cranium where the bone had been smashed. He barely seemed to notice the blow. His snarls continued, and his jaws snapped endlessly as he continued with his relentless advance.

  Again, she raised her bludgeon and brought it down in a long arc, screaming as she did so. She heard the echoing crack and felt the sudden resistance against the tip of the solid wooden leg. The vibration of the impact travelled up through her hand and along her forearm, jolting her elbow as the weapon struck her friend’s head. At her feet, Mike’s body had become still and silent. The back of his skull was caved inwards, exposing shards of white bone, pink brains, and clods of thick, clotted blood.

  She collapsed to her knees, ignoring the pain in her side, and howling like a banshee up at the sky through the wrecked floors of the building. The dead outside answered her wails with their own cries and increased their drumbeat against the doors and windows.

  Melanie burst into tears, unable to stop herself or bring herself to move. She was filled with grief and despair, a combination that threatened to send her spiralling into a deep blackness. Her thoughts drifted to better days and memories of the life she had led before the dead had begun to walk. She saw her family and friends smiling and filled with life. She pictured the places she had been and the things she had seen. She also saw Mike sitting beside her in the cockpit of their aircraft, cracking wise remarks, and making her laugh. Only when she heard the distinct shattering of glass and splintering of wood did her mind float back into reality.

  She climbed to her feet, clutching at the wound in her side and groaning from the pain. Another loud crack rang out as a pane of glass gave way from somewhere within the building. Holding out her hand against the nearest wall in order to support herself as she stumbled along, she moved towards the downed helicopter. She needed to find her pistol. At least with that, she could take matters into her own hands and have control of her fate.

  She found it exactly where she suspected it had fallen from her holster. It was lying amongst the debris beneath the door of the Gazelle. She grabbed it, instantly feeling comforted by its weight in her hand. As long as she still had a bullet in the chamber, the dead would not have the satisfaction of sinking their teeth into her while she remained alive. She checked the magazine was still firmly in its housing within the pistol-grip and ensured that there was a round in the chamber. She had two more magazines in her pocket, giving her a total of forty-five shots.

  She clumsily hauled herself back into the fuselage as more sounds of breaking doorframes and window glass echoed around her. She was close to collapse. Her head was spinning and her body felt weak, but she managed to climb into the cockpit, her wracked body dropping down upon the seat. She paused and took a deep breath.

  Even in her clouded mind, she knew that what she was about to do was wrong, but she did not care. The metal digging its way through her side was causing her too much pain. If removing it caused her to bleed out, she was beyond worrying. Bleeding out and swallowing a bullet was preferable to being torn limb from limb or suffering with a piece of iron jutting out from her ribcage. With one hand tightly holding the seat, and the other gripping the end of the cold and jagged object protruding from her side, she took a deep breath and counted to three.

  The flesh tore and the serrated edges of the metal rasped against her bones as she heaved. Again, she screamed, but she refused to let go or pause in her task. She pulled harder, her hands becoming wet with warm blood as the long sliver of iron was pulled free and the wound began to gush. Her blood-curdling cries rang out, drifting up through the hole in the roof and echoing out over the rooftops of the ruined city as her consciousness was wrenched away from her.

  All across London, hundreds of thousands of rotting heads turned towards the agony filled howls of Melanie.

  13

  Stan and Bull remained tucked into the shadow of the tall hedge. Their bodies were almost invisible to the naked eye as they stood waiting, their weapons slung over their shoulders and watching the open ground to their front. They did not want to make it appear obvious that they were trying to stay out of sight and attempted to remain casually unnoticed. They had been standing and letting the time steadily tick by for nearly an hour. They had intentionally arrived early so that they could assess the situation before the pilots arrived at the predetermined rendezvous. The moon was out, and what clouds there were drifted quickly across the sky on the blustery wind, causing varying degrees of light to filter through to the ground.

  The airfield was situated in a large field two kilometres to the west of Newport. The guard positions that were supposed to protect the area were few and far between. The majority of what remained of the army needed to concentrate their forces on the front lines that faced the militia positions. Manpower had become a premium, and there were very few troops available to protect areas behind the lines, leaving little depth in the defences. Here at the airfield, there was no more than a platoon stren
gth of soldiers to defend and keep watch upon the rows of aircraft that sat in silence. The command centre based in Newport and air-control at the far end of the airfield kept electronic eyes on the helicopters. If somebody so much as started one of their engines, the technicians that were watching the screens would instantly know about it through the transponders.

  Stan and Bull had infiltrated the airfield through one of the many blind spots that they had identified in the perimeter. Again, they had carried out their intrusion in a casual manner, not wanting to appear as though they were deliberately trying to gain entry. So far, they had gone undetected. If anyone was to challenge them, and depending on the size of the unit confronting them, they had two choices. If it was just a few men, they could easily be incapacitated and put out of action before they were able to raise the alarm, but if there were too many, they would need to use their cover-story. Their lie was as simple as could be. They would tell the sentries that they were lost. There was no other reason why two soldiers that were not assigned to that area would be there.

  “You have to love the RAF Regiment,” Bull whispered as he stood with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets and rocking back on the heels of his boots. “They want to be soldiers, but they don’t want to be soldiers. I could get a Division into here and do a few victory laps before anyone noticed.”

  Stan grunted and lifted the cuff of his jacket to check the time. Bull watched him as he fumbled with the material and then attempted to push the button on the side of the bezel in order to illuminate the face of his watch. It took him a few clumsy attempts before he was able to complete the task.