by Luke Duffy
“I’ll not be going with you I’m afraid, old boy. I’ve had enough of it all, and I’ll be staying right here. I’ll go down with my ship.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Bull snapped back at him from his position by the misshapen and crumbling doorway.
The words had erupted from his mouth before he had thought them through. They were beyond his control. His expression instantly changed when Thompson looked up and fixed him with a cold stare. The aggression faded from Bull’s face and was replaced with a look of shock and dread at the words that had slipped uncontrollably from his lips. He quickly looked away and returned his attention back to the dark corridor, feeling Thompson’s eyes burning into the back of his head. Even now, he was still terrified of the man.
Thompson looked at the battered soldiers and felt ashamed. They had clearly been through a lot. Somehow, they had survived the hell of the bombardment and then fought their way through enemy lines to get there, and now there he was, telling them that it had all been for nothing. He wished that he had the desire to go on, but he could not fool himself any longer. He had lost hope after the failed assault on London, and now as the enemy closed in it had been solidified, and nothing could bring it back to him.
“It was that cold bloodied bastard that did this to us,” Thompson snarled as he gulped down the remains of his brandy. “It was Gibson.”
“Gibson?” Gerry exclaimed from the corner. “What are you talking about, sir? How could Gibson have done this? His forces are in the north.”
“Glasgow,” Thompson replied with a shake of his head. “When we were busy losing most of our forces and assets in London, he was supposed to be attacking Glasgow and Edinburgh. Only they obviously didn’t. Instead, they were slowly making their way south through the Irish Sea. He planned it from the start.”
Another blast lifted the floor and caused a portion of the ceiling to collapse amidst a cloud of fine plaster. Bull turned his face away from the door as a veil of black smoke plumed in and burned at his eyes. It was the residue of a grenade going off somewhere within the building, its percussion forcing the debris along the corridors and through the rooms. The dark cloud was the signature of another extinguished life.
“We need to get going, Stan,” Bull coaxed to his commander. “This place is about to fall on our heads. We need to move.”
“But why? I don’t understand why he would attack us, sir,” Gerry continued, clearly having trouble with Thompson’s conclusion.
“These,” The General replied, slamming his fist down on the files that were again sitting on his desk. “He wants these. That’s been his aim from the very beginning.”
Stan looked down at the files and recognised them as the launch codes that the team had found below the streets of London. An SAS team had died retrieving them from their old command centre deep below ground, and Stan and his men had stumbled upon them as they retreated from the airstrikes and the infected. He remembered hearing about the differences in opinion on how to rid the cities of the infected. Gibson had wanted to use nuclear weapons from very early on despite the fact that they would leave the cities as nothing but radioactive piles of rubble and the country uninhabitable.
“It was that cold bastard who opened up the bunker doors and let those things in,” Thompson continued in a low voice as he stared loathingly at the stack of files. “He wanted the codes then, but something went wrong, and we could never prove that it was him. It’s obvious now, though. The murdering bastard.”
Stan had seen and heard enough. He turned and checked on Bull as he continued to watch the entrance. It sounded as though the enemy were closer, systematically clearing from room to room. Shouts and screams rang out amongst the ceaseless chatter of machinegun and rifle fire. More grenades detonated with heavy crumps, and the foundations continued to crumble from beneath their feet. He looked over to General Thompson and saw that it was pointless to continue trying to convince him to go with them. The man looked resigned to his fate and almost happy to meet it. He seemed calm and at peace with himself again as he sat back down and leaned his head against the back rest of the chair.
“Take these with you, Stan,” Thompson said. His eyes were closed as his long slender finger indicated the files. “Take these with you and get out of here. Lose them somewhere where they’ll never be found. That’s all I ask of you.”
Stan leaned forward and scooped up the bundle before stepping back from the table. He paused and watched the contented face of Thompson for a moment. His eyes were shut, and he could have been forgiven for believing that the man was asleep.
“You sure about this, boss?” Stan asked.
Thompson did not reply but merely nodded slowly and gave a slight wave of his hand, as though the question was an annoyance to him. A low grunt rumbled in his throat to accompany his lethargic body language.
“Well, then, it’s been fun, General,” Stan said with a nod.
“You too, Stan,” Thompson mumbled. “Good luck and take care.”
Nothing more needed to be said. They had to leave, and Thompson would stay where he was. He was not about to become sentimental or attempt to drag the man along. Stan turned and moved towards where Bull was squatting. He peered out into the smoke filled hallway and listened to the advancing enemy making their way through the rooms. In his mind, he was able to form a rough idea of their dispositions within the layout of the building.
“I think the front door is out of the question,” Bull said over his shoulder. “We’ll need to take an alternate route.”
“Roger that, mate. Lead on, big fella.”
Bull pushed forward in a crouch, raising his rifle and sweeping the corridor in both directions with his barrel as he searched for targets. He nodded back to Stan, indicating that the immediate area was clear.
Gerry stepped out from the corner and made as though he was about to say something to his commander. He was abruptly silenced when Stan’s powerful hand gripped him by the collar and yanked him out of Thompson’s office and into the hallway. He was dragged along, barely able to keep his balance in the wake of Stan and Bull as they began searching for a way out. The last vision he had of his commanding officer was one of him sitting in his chair, his eyes closed, and a wry smile stretching across his face.
The room was now empty again except for himself. His brandy was gone, his cigar had burned down to almost nothing, and the files were safe. He knew that he could depend on Stan to ensure that Gibson would never get his hands on them. All had turned out well, he surmised to himself as his smile broadened. There were no loose ends and nothing left unsaid.
Again, his mind drifted for a moment, and he was overcome with nostalgia. He was floating away to a much happier place and time and shrinking from the harsh and present reality. A burst of gunfire from close by snapped him back to the real world. The walls of the corridor beyond the open doorway were illuminated by a series of flashes accompanied by the bark of rifles and the screams of men. Stan and Bull were battling their way out of the trap, and if he knew the men half as well as he believed he did, they would be victorious in their task, leaving a trail of mutilated bodies in their wake.
He leaned forward and rested his elbows upon the desk. He lifted his pistol and checked the safety-catch again. Nodding his head, he raised the weapon and turned it towards himself. He reached out and brushed his fingers over the photograph of his wife and then gently turned the picture frame so that she was facing away from him. He did not want her, or her likeness, to stand witness to what was about to happen.
“I love you, Linda,” he whispered.
Another long burst of automatic fire rang out from somewhere beyond his office door. It seemed further away now, and he wondered whether it was due to his mind slipping from him or if it was because Stan was charging further through the building. He hoped that it was the latter. A series of loud concussions rippled through the halls followed by more echoes of thundering guns and screaming men.
He sat up in his chair a
nd quickly and clumsily ran his shaking hand across his scalp in an attempt to straighten his hair and make himself more presentable. Next, he brushed at the dust that had settled upon his shoulders. Even now, his pride was one of the main driving forces within his personality. He would not allow himself to meet his end looking like anything other than a British officer.
“Here we go,” he grunted, and then placed the barrel between his teeth, feeling the cold steel brush against his tongue.
He closed his eyes, picturing himself and his wife holding hands and smiling as they walked through a meadow of long green grass that swayed in the light summer wind. Birds chirped overhead, and insects buzzed lazily as they flew between the long green stalks and blooming flowers. He hoped that the place was real, and that he would soon be there.
He screwed his eyes tighter and increased the pressure upon the trigger. The gun shot cracked loudly. A moment later, the pistol dropped to the floor with a resounding clatter.
General Charles Thompson GCB, CBE, DSO, was dead.
16
The rifle juddered in his hands, and a flurry of spent bullet cases spurted out from the right of the weapon, clattering onto the floor in silence as their sound was overwhelmed by the deafening and rapid bark of gunfire. The flashes of lightening that burst from the barrel illuminated the crumbling walls and the falling shapes of the men ahead of them in the corridor, their faces etched with shock, fear, and pain as Bull’s rounds tore through their bodies and ripped their life away.
The building was filling with the acrid smoke of fire and the unmistakable smell of cordite. The three of them were beginning to choke, their throats burning and their eyes stinging. A flash, accompanied by a huge bang and pressure wave that raced along the narrow corridor towards them, knocked them from their feet. The three men rolled and slithered through the debris, avoiding the blast of a second grenade that landed a few metres away and demolished a large portion of wall.
“It’s no good,” Bull cried as he let off a long burst of fire towards their attackers in an attempt to force them into cover. “There’s too many of the fuckers.”
As one, Stan, Bull, and Gerry began to crawl back towards the junction in the corridor, headed away from the concentration of enemy forces that were tenaciously fighting their way forwards. A stream of angry red lights shot along the hallway, snapping at the air and slamming into the walls of the corridor. The tracer bullets fizzed and hissed as they rebounded from solid objects and flew in all directions, showering the men with splinters of wood and masonry. They continued to crawl, hoping to reach the corner before the enemy realised that they were firing too high and adjusted their aim. They still had a long way to go. Crawling for fifteen metres would be a great distance to cover whilst under fire and with no protection.
“Fuck this,” Bull roared and sprang to his feet. “Move, Stan, move.”
He pulled his finger back against the trigger and began spraying the corridor wildly, having no idea where exactly the enemy troops were but hoping to buy them enough time to allow Stan and Gerry to bound back and then cover his own withdrawal. His rounds thumped into the floors, walls, ceiling, and doorways inaccurately, but it was sustained and enough to cause the soldiers to think twice before raising their heads. The enemy fire wilted for a moment as Bull continued to fire burst after burst in their general direction, screaming at the same time as his huge frame was illuminated in the muzzle flashes, casting a horrific spectacle for anyone who saw him and his rage contorted face.
Stan and Gerry raced for the junction. They slammed into the wall as Bull continued to fire until his magazine suddenly ran dry. The crescendo ceased, but Bull’s howls of anger and frustration continued. Stan was already in position and immediately filled the void with the clatter of his own sub-machinegun, firing short bursts along the right-hand wall of the corridor to avoid hitting his friend.
“Move,” he cried as his weapon jerked against his shoulder. “Keep left, keep left.”
Looming out of the blackness, he saw the massive silhouette of Bull already leaping towards him. Within a few short bounds, Bull crashed into the wall behind them and rebounded, spinning his body to the left and into cover. Gerry yelped as his heavy foot stomped down on his ankle. He, too, was taking cover at the corner and doing what he could to support them with his pistol.
“Those cunts don’t know when they’re beaten,” Bull huffed as he squatted down and tore the empty magazine from his rifle.
Stan loosed off another burst and quickly pulled himself back around the corner as a stream of enemy bullets whipped along the corridor and thwacked into the wall behind them. It was almost pitch-black within the building, the only illumination coming from the flashes of gunfire and explosions. Stan was trying his best to remember where exactly they were, but he had become disoriented in the maze of rooms and hallways, constantly changing direction as they came under fire and searching for alternate routes.
“Are there no fucking windows in this place?” He snarled.
“The basement,” Gerry suddenly blurted, shouting over the din of the battle. “It’s the only other way out.”
Bull looked up and saw through the gloom the glint of the steel railings leading down into the subterranean science labs beneath the command centre. His blood chilled within his veins as he remembered the wails of the dead drifting up from the dark chasm of the stairwell and Samantha informing them of what was happening down there.
“Fuck that,” he exclaimed, vigorously shaking his head. “I’d rather fight through up here, thanks.”
Another surge of snapping projectiles slammed into the walls and floor around them, peppering them with debris and dust and forcing them to duck their heads and shield their faces. The enemy had regained the initiative and were advancing again. Stan fired off another torrent of rounds into the corridor, hoping to stall for time. The building suddenly shook violently and seemed to skid across the ground and away from its foundations. A number of doors exploded outwards as their frames buckled and collapsed. Walls tumbled, and portions of the roof came crashing through the ceiling around them. The three men, rolling on the floor and searching for cover, knew that there was no other choice now. They were either going through the basement or staying on the surface to be killed by the enemy or the collapsing building.
“Bollocks,” Stan grunted as he climbed back to his feet and turned to Gerry. “Come on then. You know the place so you’re leading the way.”
Out of the immediate line of fire, the three of them reached the stairwell and began to descend. Gerry was in front, holding his pistol in one hand and a small light in the other. The beam barely illuminated an area much larger than half a metre in diameter, but it was sufficient enough in the cramped environment of the stairway. They moved in silence, treading carefully on the grated steps to avoid noise. They did not want the enemy soldiers, close on their heels, to know where they had gone, but at the same time, did not wish to alert anything that was ahead of them. They reached the bottom of the cold and dank shaft. They were greeted by a wall of blackness and silence, the battle above seemingly a million miles away now. They could hear the sporadic fire continuing from within the building and the voices of men calling out to one another, but they had managed to create a little breathing room for themselves. However, they all knew that it would not be long before the invading troops realised where they had gone, and a grenade being tossed into the stairwell would be adequate enough to end the existence of the three retreating men.
Gerry paused and pressed his ear against the doors leading into the underground labs. The barrier was cold against his cheek, causing a shiver to run down along his spine as he imagined what could be lying beyond, waiting for them. He could hear nothing. There were no voices from the living or moans from the dead, and the silence unnerved him.
In the dim light, Stan could see the fear in Gerry’s face. He looked down at the pistol in his hand and then back at the pale and glistening features of the officer. He was still li
stening, unable to make a decision on whether or not it was safe to enter. His hesitation and expression were speaking volumes, and Stan realised that it would be better if he himself led the way through the laboratories.
“You cover the rear, and point us in the right direction,” Stan whispered. “You don’t have enough ammo for your pea-shooter.”
“I think it’s clear,” Gerry nodded and happily accepted Stan’s offer, taking up position behind a huge wall that answered to the name ‘Bull’.
He looked up towards the top of the stairs, realising that the enemy fire had died down substantially. They were searching the building for the escapees and the launch codes that were tucked into Stan’s jacket. He turned his attention back to the others and took a deep breath as Stan leaned forward and tentatively turned the handle of the door. He could feel his skin becoming soaked with sweat despite the chill of the air. He hoped that he had been correct and that the labs were not filled with the infected as he watched Stan’s hand twist the handle further downwards until a light click echoed through the stairwell.
Bull had his rifle aiming at the dark crack of the door as it grew larger while Stan pulled it open. The barrier moved silently and came to a complete stop as it made contact with the buffer plate that was fixed to the wall. A plume of dust laden smoke gushed outwards from the black void and enveloped them, indicating that the structures below the surface had sustained a degree of damage. For all they knew, the entire basement complex may have collapsed, and their route out could be blocked.
The three of them paused, holding their breath as the smoke began to clear. They stood and listened, watching and sniffing at the air. The odour of putrefaction and the metallic tinge of warm blood wafted out towards them from the dark interior on a cold draft. They remained still, staring at the wall of blackness and hesitant to go any further. Above, the voices were growing louder, accompanied by the thumping footsteps as the soldiers drew nearer. The enemy numbers were too large for them to be able to fight it out and survive. They needed to go through the laboratories.
