‘Everyone out. We’ll finish on foot. Only two or so kilometres to go,’ he said, trying to sound encouraging. He waved at the occupants of the cars to get out and join them.
‘I want everyone as a tight group, rifleman on the outside. We’re going to do this at a jog, ok? No matter what we come up against, we keep moving forward. The end’s in sight guys, let’s take it home.’ Novak attached a bayonet to the end of his rifle and led the way forward, starting out at medium-paced trot, weapon at the ready.
Rounding the large bus that had blocked the intersection, they came across their first Carriers. Numerous shuffling and lurching figures were spread out down Elizabeth Street growing in density towards the city, however, none were close enough to cause immediate harm. The Infected tracked their movement with unblinking eyes, their faces a rictus of anger as they followed behind.
Novak picked out a target ahead. Three Infected men blocked their path, he raised his rifle to shoulder, paused his movement to lay the sights over the middle figure’s face and squeezed the trigger. The recoil wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated, and he rose to find his target on the ground missing a significant portion of its face and head. The two remaining Infected were oblivious to the other’s demise, pacing forwards with arms outreached in anticipation.
He felt the group bunching behind him and knew they had to keep moving at all costs. Walking forward he came within a foot before firing a second round at point blank range, snapping the head back in a mist of bloody tissue. A staccato of bullets ripped up the torso of the other Infected, starting at the abdomen, the last round collecting the corpse between the eyes. Novak glared at the uni-student who had fired.
‘Get it back on single shot and conserve your rounds,’ he growled.
They kept moving, the numbers of Infected steadily growing. Fifteen of the walking dead occupied the Crown Street intersection. The group hit them without pause, rifles coughing bullets to knock the Carriers from their feet. The accuracy was poor, most rounds only hitting the Infected in the torso or abdomen, however it was enough to momentarily prevent their attack as they passed through.
From Novak’s peripheral vision as they passed Crown Street, he realised they were in real trouble. Towards the city, the street was packed with a slow-moving swarm of Infected. They had to keep onwards and hope the SCG was defended as promised.
A crowd of the Infected emerged from the next street corner, blocking their path towards the SCG. This group was denser and would be hard to break through. Looking behind, Novak found their retreat sealed, the swarm had emerged from Crown Street, preventing their exit back along Cleveland. The sporting fields surrounding the SCG could be seen in the near distance, and yet they might as well have been a hundred miles away.
They were trapped.
The noise emitted by the Carriers was oppressive, their animalistic rage and blood lust drowned out all other sound. Novak halted the group, pulling them into a tight knot. People were terrified. The smell of shit and piss filled the air as some were incontinent with fear. They had seconds before they were attacked. Novak tried to ignore his own terror, he needed rage to overcome immobility and allow him to fight.
He soon found a kernel of anger to stoke. Anger at being left behind by his own police force, anger at being stuck with the responsibility of saving so many people, and pure bloody rage that he’d come so close to succeeding before having it ripped away. He heard the roaring of blood in his ears, reducing the snarls of the surrounding Infected to a murmur.
‘Rifles to the outside!’ he shouted above the roar of the Infected. ‘We go through, or we’re dead. Everybody fights. Send these fuckers back to hell!’ he screamed.
He flicked off the auto lock-out behind the rifles trigger to allow the weapon to automatic fire. Novak aimed at general head height and loosed a burst of fire, sweeping an arc across the front of their attackers. Numerous bodies fell, but far too many were left standing. Suddenly they were amidst the Infected, bloody hands wrenching anything within reach, seeking to draw flesh towards ravenous mouths.
Machine gun bursts thundered all around, echoing back off the buildings either side of the street as the rest of the group engaged the enemy. They were slowly making ground. The riflemen were at the front and sides; some firing methodically, others in panic, letting wild spatterings of bullets whip through the flesh of the undead in front.
One of the younger students gripped the trigger on auto without having proper grip of the stock, the barrel rose ever higher into the air. In fear, he still gripped the trigger and fell backwards, spraying bullets through the middle of the evacuees. Screams of agony mingled with those of fear as maimed people dropped to the ground to curl about their wounds. The Infected were thinning numbers at the outer edge of the group, drawing people forward and down into the press to be ripped apart by mouth and hand.
Novak stabbed his bayonet forward between shots, thrusting the point into faces of his undead opponents. He tasted copper as blood slicked across his face and into his mouth from a gash at his hairline. He used the stock like a club on the withdraw, crushing skulls where possible before opening up an area of reprieve with an automatic burst of fire. They all walked on a carpet of flesh now as they advanced through the intersection, a flooring of bloody torsos, slippery loops of intestine and limbs. Stench filled his nostrils, the mix of shit, blood and piss and terror making his stomach churn.
Many of the corpses under foot were still functioning, hands reached upwards to grasp at legs, teeth fastened on unguarded ankles. The evacuees stamped with each step, trying to crush the skulls of those on the ground, smashing downwards with their makeshift clubs, or stabbing over the shoulders of the remaining rifleman into the press.
Novak was out of ammunition, stuck using his rifle as a club and the bayonet as a spear. A female student from his group screamed in his ear, a high-pitched shriek of agony as a Carrier latched onto her arm and pulled her to the ground, savaging her neck. Too late to help her. He drove ahead again, stabbing at anything within reach, a high-pitched whine from his damaged eardrum blending with the tortured screams of the fallen.
A last corpse dropped at his feet, the frontal bone caved in beneath his rifle’s stock – and suddenly he was free. Open street lay between him and the parkland surrounding the SCG. The Infected on the outside of the throng ignored him, intent on attacking the greater density of people still stuck within. He now needed to widen the breach so that the rest could escape the writhing mass of killers.
Novak began viciously clubbing the Infected between him and the evacuees following, as more people extricated themselves and turned to help him free the rest.
Finally, the last member was pulled from the clutching grasp of a crawling Carrier. Novak quickly scanned the remaining evacuees, as they jogged onwards. Most of the Infected remained thrashing in the crowd, fighting over the bodies of the fallen, only a handful turned to pursue them. The keening screams of those left behind were gradually cut off as they succumbed beneath the torturous teeth and stabbing fingers of their attackers.
The survivors were pitifully few in number; no more than twenty of them remained. He’d lost more than half escaping the swarm, and now they were incredibly vulnerable. Of the weapons, only four rifles remained, none with ammunition. The handgun at his waist was the only firearm capable of firing. Novak urged them onwards, variously with humour or aggression, whatever kept his charges moving as fast as they could. He noted at least four of them were carrying wounds, bite marks to arms and legs. They would have to be dealt with soon, but not yet.
As they ran through the park, three Chinook helicopters thundered overhead towards the SCG, their dual rotors buffeting the grass flat around Novak and the surviving evacuees. He could now see the processing stations leading into the stadium, and the military cordon. They were no longer on their own, hundreds of other civilians were streaming towards the stadium entrances, queuing in agitated lines, desperate for access to the safety offered within.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘Take the next street, my house is on the left,’ said Penny. She was leaning forward in her seat, hands balled into fists on her lap, the skin over the knuckles blanched. Mark made the turn, checking the house numbers as he went. The street was deserted. A lone car was parked in a driveway, abandoned with the driver’s door open. Penny shook her head in dismissal as Mark pointed it out.
Mark saw the number he was looking for, a shiny copper nine reflected the sun from its location on the mail box. He pulled into the driveway and Penny was out of the car before it had stopped, running to the front door. Georgie followed close behind. This had been the best place to start looking, hoping that Penny’s son may have returned to hide.
Mark got out of the car and leaned against the front bonnet, his Sako .22 rifle in hand as he scanned the street for movement. It was silent aside from the birds. Short, wiry indigenous trees were planted along the street, attracting Rainbow Lorikeets to feed from the flowers. Their cries were raucous, as if enjoying their new primacy as sole living creatures of the street. He glanced into the back seat of the ute where Peter remained, feigning sleep, and clenched his teeth in irritation at the man’s inaction. Even if he was too scared to leave the vehicle, surely he could at least help keep a lookout for Infected.
The women emerged from the house. Georgie shook her head at Mark’s raised eyebrow; they’d had no luck, the place was empty. Penny’s face was pale and drawn, there was only one other place to look now – the crash site. She directed Mark out of the street, taking the route her husband usually took to the M5 motorway, and within three blocks, they found the wreck.
The gunmetal grey station wagon had mounted the curb half way down the street, crashing into a telegraph pole. The base had snapped on impact, the pole falling to crush the midline of roof between driver and passenger. Surprisingly the roof had stood up to the weight, only bowing moderately under the tonne of wood. Mark pulled up ten metres back from the vehicle. After turning off the ute’s engine, they all heard it; the growling rasp of a Carrier. Penny emitted an involuntarily sob. They knew what they would find behind the driver’s wheel.
Mark got out and warily circled the station wagon. The driver’s window had been smashed out by the attacking ghouls, and through this opening, what was left of Penny’s husband now vented his rage at being entrapped. His right forearm was missing below the elbow, and the meat had been stripped and chewed away from the upper arm leaving carmine-streaked bone open to the air. The near side of his face had not fared much better. It had been reduced to a mess of sinew, muscle and bone almost unrecognisable as human. At the sound of Mark, the head turned. The sole remaining eye fixed a glare of hatred upon him as the head whipped about, teeth snapping in anticipation. The seat belt held the undead creature firmly in place, imprisoned by the simplest of restraints.
A scuffing shoe on the ground caused Mark to turn, and he found Penny at his shoulder. She had approached reluctantly, obviously terrified to confirm with her eyes what her ears had already declared as fact.
‘Oh David....,’ she whispered, hand over her mouth in horror. Tears silently flowed down her cheeks. Mark put an arm around her shoulders, gently steering her up to the path and away.
‘Do you want me to end it for him, Penny?’ he gently asked.
Penny took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘No. I at least owe him that. If not for me, they could have left earlier. Maybe they would have been safe in Melbourne by now.’
Penny hesitantly walked back to the driver’s window. She raised her eyes to stare at her husband as he snapped and bucked at the seatbelt, reaching for her with his one remaining hand.
‘I’m sorry, David. Sorry for all of it.’
Tears streamed afresh as she drew her service revolver. Clicking off the safety, she raised it in a trembling hand and fired. David’s head jerked to the side with passage of the bullet then fell silent.
Penny lifted her free hand to rub at her eyes as if she could erase what they had seen. After a few moments she called to Mark. ‘We still have to find Ben.’ Her voice was thick with strain.
He nodded, and joined her to begin a search of the block. Peter and Georgie followed in the ute, close behind. Suddenly Penny darted forward and picked up an item off the ground. It was a bloodstained skate shoe. Mark ground his teeth together, not looking forward to the next find.
The shoe had been on the ground at the start of a concrete driveway that disappeared behind a high fence, concealing much of the front yard from view. Mark offered to check it out alone, but Penny elbowed him aside. The front yard was dominated by a huge avocado tree, thick green leaves blocking much of the sun from reaching the ground beneath. At the base of the trunk was a figure hidden in shadow. They approached slowly, Mark’s eyes searching the margins of the garden for any other presence. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, more details emerged. The grass around the figure had been mulched into the soil, blood having been spilt in such quantities to turn the dirt into mud. The figure itself was little more than shredded flesh and splintered bone, with no identifying feature remaining.
Penny knelt at its side, cold blood soaking through the knees of her pants to chill the skin beneath. She was looking over the body, checking what was left of the hands. The thumb and index finger remained on the right hand, and as she lifted this closer, Penny began to wail, a sound of pure grief. She clenched the hand to her mouth, kissing the finger and thumb, murmuring an apology again and again under her breath as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Mark put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Penny, it might not be him. There’s… there’s nothing left here to identify… Maybe he got away.’
Penny held up the hand towards Mark. ‘Look at the thumb. There’s a high ridge down the middle of the nail. Ben’s had this deformity ever since his thumb got slammed in a car door. The doctor missed the nail bed injury and when the nail grew out, it had this ridge in it. It’s him Mark,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I wish to god it wasn’t, but it’s him.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Penny. This is such a shit situation...’ Mark looked at his feet, feeling awful for wanting to escape her grief. ‘I know it doesn’t cut it, no words will, but I’m sorry for your loss.’
Penny looked up at him, tears cutting pale lines through the grime of her face. ‘Will you help me bury them, Mark. One last favour?’
Mark glanced once more around the garden, he was getting nervous being in the one location for such an extended period of time. Surely the Infected that had massacred the boy must be nearby.
‘Of course. Come back to the car though, let me and Peter get it sorted,’ he said as he led Penny down to the ute.
The next property had a large well-maintained garden at the front of house. The soil in a large bed of yellow daffodils had been the best option, the loose dirt yielding to the only tools that Mark had for the job – his hands. He coaxed Peter out of the ute to help, and between them, they scooped out a body length shallow pit, before gently placing the two sets of remains together, son and father to be forever more by each other’s side.
Mark was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in agitation. He sighed and looked at his watch for the fifth time. Peter had been badgering him to hit the road, and as much as the guy was starting to give him the shits, he was right. They needed to get going. If they stayed any longer, they would all end up on the menu.
‘Georgie, I don’t know what to say to her, but we need to head off. She’s going to have to make a choice to stay or join us soon. Do you reckon you could get her moving?’
‘It’s not like I have any idea
what to say either you know,’ she muttered, clearly not looking forward to encroaching on the grieving mother. ‘Ok, I’ll try,’ she said, giving in with a sigh. Georgie swung down from the ute and walked up to the garden.
She found Penny lying on the grass, lengthways next to the grave of her husband and son. The woman was staring up at the sky blankly, gazing into nothing while the fingers of one hand toyed with a daffodil at the edge of the dirt. For some reason Georgie found it mildly unnerving, she would have been more comfortable to find her crying.
Penny’s eyes suddenly flicked towards her. ‘I just feel numb, like I’ve been hollowed out inside. I can’t cry anymore; it just doesn’t feel real. What the fuck’s wrong with me?’
‘Nothing feels real at the moment to any of us,’ Georgie said. ‘The last couple of days should only be in nightmares. It wasn’t your fault, Penny. I’m sorry, but we have to leave. Will you still come with us?’
Georgie didn’t give her time to respond, grabbing her hands and pulling her to standing. She brought Penny to the ute, leading her like an invalid. Peter opened the back door and helped seat her inside. As they drove off, Penny stared at the burial site, still looking backwards long after it disappeared from sight.
Chapter Twenty-Three
There hadn’t been time to fortify the sports ground to any major depth. The military had instead built a semicircular series of sandbag redoubts facing onto the park at twenty-five-metre intervals. The cordon blocked the road approaching the SCG from the north and south, then extended along the margin of the adjacent paved areas west of the SCG. This allowed use of the area for processing civilians that sought extraction. The redoubts were topped with FN Minimi machine guns, and accompanied by a detachment of general infantry soldiers that roughly directed approaching civilians.
Plague War: Outbreak Page 12
