The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3)

by Luke Duffy

  “You getting any better with that?”

  “Better with what?” Stan replied without looking at him. He knew what Bull was referring to, but he did not want to acknowledge it.

  “I mean your arm and the nerve damage,” Bull answered immediately, nodding towards Stan’s right hand. “Is it getting any better?”

  “I’m getting used to it now. I can do a lot more with it than I could at the start. Feels completely dead in the mornings, though, and takes a while to wake up.”

  Bull had seen him on many occasions standing on a secluded patch of ground at the back of the house, practicing with his weapons, getting used to the lack of dexterity in his arm, and needing to rely more on his left. Stan was never one to allow an injury to get in the way of him doing his job. Bull had heard a rumour that the man had completed SAS selection with a broken leg, only going to get it seen to by a professional once he had been badged as part of the regiment. Again, and as always with Stan, nothing was ever confirmed or discounted. When it came to matters about his illusive past, the man was an enigma.

  Since the injuries he had sustained in Manchester when the exploding glass had killed Brian and severed the nerves and tendons in Stan’s arm, their commander had devoted a lot of his time adjusting and retraining his body and mind around his damaged limb. He could wield his pistol and MP-5 sub-machinegun with his left arm better than most experts. As a result, he was fast, accurate, and able to manipulate his weapons as though he was naturally left handed. An injury that would have made most men change their profession completely was looked upon as a mere bump in the road by Stan.

  Bull did not bother to continue with the line of questioning towards his commander. He knew all too well that Stan would not want to talk about his injuries any more than he had already done. He looked away and spat.

  “It fucking stinks here.”

  “No wonder,” Stan whispered back to him and nodded towards the ditch behind them that was running parallel to the hedgerow.

  “Yeah, I saw them earlier. There’s a few amongst them that are still twitching.”

  The shallow trench was filled with the corpses of the dead. The soldiers defending the airfield did not have the resources to round them up and dispose of them properly. Instead, whenever they wandered into the area, they were shot and turfed into the nearest ditch. Some of them had been burned, but with fuel being so scarce, most of them were just left to rot.

  “The whole island is slowly becoming a mass grave,” Stan replied.

  Over to the east, the sky had begun changing colour. Only slightly, but enough to herald the dawning of a new day. It was slowly growing lighter and within a short space of time, the huge dark hulks of the helicopters began to appear from out of the blackness. A variety of machines sat together in a long line. Troop carriers, such as the three remaining CH-47s, and smaller aircraft like the Lynx, Gazelle, and the formidable Apaches and Cobras that glistened with heavy armaments lay like giant prehistoric beasts, waiting for the sun to rise and warm their cold bodies back to life.

  “Here we go,” Stan muttered a short while later.

  Bull looked up and saw two faint shapes moving from the area where the aircraft lay dormant. It was impossible to identify them in the low light, but they were definitely human and alive. They moved with purpose and a coordination that could only be performed by the living. They appeared from around the front of one of the bulbous noses of a Chinook and began to make their way across the damp grass towards the hedgerow. As they drew closer, Stan was able to see them more clearly and identify the flight-suits they wore.

  Stan and Bull did not move. It was clear that the two men could not see them yet as they were not walking directly towards their position. Stan and Bull had also deliberately stayed away from the exact location of the rendezvous in case their plan had been compromised. They lurked in the shadows and watched as the men trundled by, wanting to be sure that the two figures were indeed their expected pilots before they would consider exposing themselves out in the open.

  The two men stopped close to the cattle grid and break in the hedge that had been chosen as the meeting point. They waited for a while, nervously shuffling their feet and constantly looking over their shoulders in all directions as they spoke to one another in hushed voices. They were risking a lot. They knew full well what would happen to them if they were caught trying to desert, let alone stealing a helicopter.

  After a few minutes, Stan nudged Bull with his elbow and nodded towards the two pilots. He was satisfied that they were the men they were expected to meet, and that they had not been followed. From what they had seen, there was no one in the immediate vicinity, and there was no indication of an ambush waiting for them. The plan was going ahead. The pilots had arrived, and it was time for them to go and introduce themselves.

  They stepped out from the hedgerow and into the moonlight. They moved slowly, not wanting to startle the clearly nervous pilots and provoking them into making a sudden noise or movement that could attract the attention of one of the sentries in the area. They were twenty metres away before either of the men saw Stan and Bull headed in their direction. The first man turned, looking surprised to see the two soldiers approaching from within the airfield. They had been expecting them to come down along the track on the opposite side of the hedge. He reached out and patted his partner on the shoulder to gain his attention. They both turned and waited for Stan and Bull to come closer.

  “You must be Stan. Glad you made it. We were beginning to wonder,” the first man whispered, holding out his hand and smiling nervously.

  Stan studied him briefly, and judging by his appearance, he imagined the man as being more comfortable on a surf board than wearing a flight suit.

  His teeth glowed against the darkness, and the whites of his eyes seemed bright enough to be visible from quite a distance. He was a tall and athletic looking man, with blonde flowing hair that was far longer than regulation length for the British military. Most regulations, however, had long since been forgotten. Getting a haircut or ensuring that they shaved each morning had been something that most of the surviving troops had ignored from very early on. His eyes darted with apprehension, constantly checking his surroundings, but his stern features and resolute expression made him appear determined to see his mission through.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Stan replied, accepting the other man’s hand as he eyed the pair of them with natural suspicion.

  Bull remained a few steps back from Stan, staying slightly to his right, and ready to jump into action at the first sign of trouble. He watched the pilots, and his mind took in every detail: how they held themselves, the position they were standing in, what their hands were doing, and what their eyes were telling him. Holding his M-4 rifle in his right hand, pointed towards the wet grass but ready to be brought up within a fraction of a second, Bull waited for Stan to approve the men. Neither of them seemed to be aware that with a single nod of Stan’s head they could be dead before either of them had the chance to scream.

  “My name’s Glenn,” the first man replied, and nodded to the other figure that was standing beside him. “This is Scott, my co-pilot. The rest of the crew are already on board and waiting to go. We’ve got everything ready. The transponder is disconnected, and our orders are currently doing the rounds. I’m not sure for how much longer they’ll keep people confused, though, so we need to get going.”

  “We’re ready when you are.”

  Stan turned to Bull and gave him a reassuring nod. Bull relaxed slightly and stepped in closer, allowing the two pilots to see his face more clearly. They looked back at him, visibly in awe of his size and conveying a hint of caution as they stared at the concentrated expression upon his scarred features. He nodded to them in way of greeting but kept his distance. Stan had signalled that it was okay to go with them but had not yet confirmed that he could trust them. While they moved towards the helicopter, Bull would keep an eye on their rear and their flanks while Stan watched the pilots c
losely. They would react with extreme violence and with complete self-preservation in mind if they were suddenly ambushed or if the pilots made any indication that they were not playing for the same team.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Stan,” Glenn began as they started to make their way back towards the line of helicopters. They could be seen more clearly now as the sky became lighter by the minute. “Sam told us that we could bring anyone along who we could trust, and we felt that a few extra hands wouldn’t hurt.”

  Stan nodded. He wondered what they could expect when they reached the aircraft. On the one hand, and typical of his cautious mind, he had visions of a platoon of heavily armed soldiers waiting for them. Whilst on the other hand, he could picture a tailgate overflowing with a crowd of desperate women and children, waiting to be taken to the Promised Land, and needing to be looked after.

  “That’s ours, there,” Glenn said, pointing to a Chinook that was fifty metres away and close to the end of the line. Like all the other aircraft in the area, it was dark and silent, showing no sign of being ready to take off.

  “Everything is ready. We just need to start her up,” Scott added when he saw the mistrustful expression in Bull’s eyes.

  They continued to walk towards the machine, leaving a trail of flattened, dew soaked grass behind them as the four men made their way across the field. There was no sound coming from the area or any of the other dormant helicopters. Apart from the cold wind blowing across the island from the sea, the place was as still as a grave, almost eerie.

  “We’ve also managed to…” Glenn began but then stopped in mid-sentence.

  From the south, a distant, crackling rumble punctured the silence of the early dawn. It sounded like the unmistakable endless, high-pitched groan from a jet engine, growing louder as it drew near. All four of the men stopped and turned to see an elongated glowing object as it raced across the horizon just fifty metres above the ground and leaving a trail of faint, wispy smoke in its wake. It was moving fast, travelling the length of the island within just a few seconds and streaking across the heavens on the way to its destination. Bull and Stan instantly recognised it, but the pilots had not yet realised what they were witnessing.

  “What the hell’s that?” Scott muttered as he stood staring at the fiery object, a perplexed look on his face. He turned to the others for enlightenment.

  The ball of light soon disappeared over the horizon towards the slowly brightening sky, leaving only its fast waning smoke trail behind and the deep grumbling sound of its propulsion system echoing over the land. A few seconds later and a brilliant flash sprang up from the east, illuminating the clouds for an instant, shattering the darkness, and quickly being replaced by an intense fluttering glow from the point of impact. It took a while, but the booming report eventually reached Stan and the others, its low, but heavy, concussion filling the air and rumbling up through the ground.

  Glenn and Scott stared at one another in shock. They could not make any sense of what they had just seen, and when they saw more of the missiles snaking their way across the sky from above the clouds, headed towards the east, they became rooted to the spot. Only Stan and Bull had realised what was happening and jumped into action.

  “Move,” Stan roared, turning in the opposite direction and increasing his pace until he broke into a run. “Get to the heli, now.”

  Bull grabbed the two pilots by their harnesses, physically turning them around and dragging them along with him as he chased after Stan. Behind them, far off in the distance, more sonic booms rang out as the volley of rockets smashed into their targets, blowing them to pieces, and destroying men and material alike. The calm night had been swept aside, being forced to retreat under the torrent of explosions that now filled the air above the island. The crackle of exploding munitions and roaring missiles became more intense as wave upon wave of guided bombs soared through the skies. It became impossible to distinguish the individual detonations from one another as the bombardment intensified. The ground shook violently with each impact, denoting the destruction of yet another position and the obliteration of its unfortunate occupants.

  “What’s happening?” Glenn shouted as he was pushed and pulled along by the huge arms and shoulders of Bull. “Who’s firing missiles at us?”

  “Does it actually matter who or why?” Bull growled back at him above the din of the distant assault and continuing to force both men along with him. “We’re under attack. Fucking move yourselves and get that chopper up in the air.”

  A deafening whoosh drowned out their thoughts and words. For a fraction of a second, it sounded and felt as though they had been picked up and dropped into a vacuum chamber. Their ears almost imploded from the pressure, and their hearts and lungs jumped into their throats. In an instant, they were flung to the ground and then lifted up into the air as the airfield exploded around them. A blinding flash seared their eyes, sending their optic nerves into convulsions as their vision was momentarily snatched away from them, being replaced with a blanket of all-consuming whiteness.

  As the blast wave struck, and the intense heat threatened to strip the flesh from his bones, Bull felt himself being tossed a great distance from where he had been standing. He was hurled through the air and in the opposite direction from the helicopters as a number of the aircraft disintegrated, throwing out glowing fragments of their rotors and engines in all directions. As his eyes were almost sucked from their sockets, his body twisted through the air, his arms and legs flailing. For a fleeting moment, he saw more flashes and balls of fire as the deluge of guided warheads ploughed into the airfield. The whole island seemed to be engulfed by fire and ear-piercing thunderclaps of detonating high-explosives.

  He landed heavily, hitting the soft earth, and instantly forming a shallow crater around his impact site. Again, his body was buffeted and slung through the grass as more explosions ripped through the airfield and obliterated everything around him. His vision, hearing, breath, and mind were struggling to hold on to their foundations as the assault upon his senses threatened to drive him into a chaotic black hole. He was on the brink of losing consciousness, barely aware of where he was, when he was ripped from the ground once more and hurled, spinning through the air like a rag-doll.

  The assault increased in ferocity. Debris was flying in all directions as more of the vulnerable helicopters were torn to pieces by the exploding rockets. Steel and glass, whizzing over the ground like speeding bullets, ripped through anything they came into contact with.

  Again, Bull crashed back down to earth with a heavy thud. Any air that he had managed to cling onto was knocked from his lungs, leaving him gasping amongst the anarchy that seemed to reign around him. Agonising screams rang out from somewhere close by. Someone had been hit from the whirling shrapnel, and their blood-curdling howls, for a few short seconds, drowned out the sound of carnage as the rockets continued to stream in from their unseen attackers. Another crushing detonation, blast of heat, and powerful shockwave, and the cries of agony were instantly extinguished.

  Bull rolled over as chunks of metal and other parts of a helicopter thumped into the dirt close to where he was. They bounced heavily, spinning off in other directions, and creating their own paths of destruction while other pieces of shrapnel buried themselves deep into the mud. He needed to get out of the immediate area, but each time he was beginning to claw back his mind from the madness created by the booming explosions, another missile would snatch it back and away from him. His eyes refused to focus, and his limbs were incapable of obeying his commands as his psyche rattled precariously along the rim of insanity.

  He began to sliver across the dew covered grass and away from the chaos behind him, clutching at the dirt, and hauling himself along on his stomach. He was screaming above the din of the barrage in an attempt to stave off the overwhelming pressure that was threatening to cause his skull to implode. He had been under bombardment from artillery and rocket fire before, but he had never experienced it with such intensity. It seeme
d impossible that he was still alive and moving while everything around him was smashed and torn apart.

  As he made some ground away from the immediate impact sites, he began to hear the distinct thumps of helicopter rotors above him. The sky sounded as though they were filled with a thousand of the machines, but when he turned his eyes to the sky, he could see nothing but the thick, billowing clouds of acrid smoke spewing up from the wreckage of the destroyed helicopters. His mind could not make sense of what he was seeing and hearing. He continued to crawl.

  “Stan,” he howled over his shoulder as he crawled for his life, unsure whether the words were actually flowing from his mouth. “Where the fuck are you, Stan? Answer me. What the fuck is happening?”

  Another voice was also screaming out from amongst the mayhem and from close by, but it was impossible for Bull to understand the words or recognise the voice. He could not stop. He needed to keep moving and to get away from the airfield. The assault was relentless, showing no sign of let-up as the rockets poured in. Bull could think of nothing other than getting away from the blasts.

  A missile landed forty metres away, vaporising the ground beneath it and anything else in the immediate area in a flash of extreme heat. The blast wave ripped along the ground, snatching up Bull and sending him spinning through the air again, and then rolling further across the field as he landed back down to earth. The shock of the explosion caused his teeth to rattle and his innards to twist and jolt against his bones. It felt as though he was being crushed and pulled apart simultaneously.

  Above him, machineguns began to rattle.

  The swirling, smoke filled darkness over Bull’s head reverberated with the sound of heavy weapons, mercilessly firing into their targets on the ground below. He could hear the rapid, tearing howl of 20mm rotating cannons, spitting out thousands of rounds per minute, chewing up flesh, bone, and steel without distinction or decrease in effectiveness. The cannons were joined by the unmistakable deep juddering thuds of the Browning heavy machineguns, fired from the flanks of attack helicopters while they continued to pound the airfield into a churned mess with their rockets.