Plague War: Outbreak

by Alister Hodge

  As Novak herded his group between two redoubts, he was pulled up by one of the soldiers, a corporal by the chevrons on his uniform.

  ‘Hold up there, mate,’ said the soldier.

  The corporal had his rifle raised, aimed straight at Novak’s face. ‘I don’t even want to know how you came across those weapons, but they stay here. Place them at your feet and move away.’

  There was no arguing with the man, the rifles were largely useless anyway without ammunition. Novak calmly placed the Austeyr on the ground, followed by the other evacuees that still retained a rifle. Two privates darted forward and retrieved the weapons. Nobody checked for small arms, leaving Novak’s service pistol unnoticed. The corporal waved them onwards once more with the point of his rifle, his focus once more directed elsewhere.

  Back from the initial cordon, other soldiers directed the approaching civilians to processing stations. Novak and his followers were forced into a long queue passing between two waist-high temporary fences. At the mid-point, a large German Shepherd and handler were on duty, the dog intently sniffing each person before stepping back. As Novak and his group approached, the demeanour of the animal changed. Its tail tucked up between its hind legs, the ears flattened and lips drew back exposing teeth. A deep growl rumbled from the beast’s throat. The handler moved his animal out of reach, the back legs of the dog shaking, a wet patch on the underlying concrete expanding as the dog wet itself in terror.

  A different soldier now blocked their path.

  ‘Someone in this group has early stages of infection. We need those that have been bitten to separate, and move over there,’ he said, pointing towards a shipping container.

  The container had an open door at the back, although shadow obscured vision of the interior. Novak’s team looked toward him for an answer, the dependence upon his leadership had become absolute. He shrugged, ‘I don’t think we really have a choice, guys.’

  ‘Just walk over there, and we’ll be able to guarantee you won’t become one of those walking corpses. We’re in a hurry though, so hands up, who’s bitten here?’ The soldier was becoming more agitated.

  Four of the group separated themselves and walked hesitantly towards the container where two soldiers waited. The soldiers ordered the small group into a line, facing away from Novak.

  ‘Get onto your knees, hands behind your back where I can see them,’ barked the older soldier, voice tight. Any choice to comply was removed as the men roughly shoved them to kneel on the concrete.

  One of the group, a female student with a bite mark on her calf looked over her shoulder at the sergeant, her face pale and eyes wide. ‘Novak, what’s going on?’ she asked, voice shaking.

  He felt his gut lurch. Novak turned to the soldier who’d ordered the separation of his group. ‘Hey, I’m responsible for these people! What are you guys doing?’ When the man didn’t reply, Novak grabbed his shoulder with one hand, forcing him to acknowledge his question. In his peripheral vision, the German Shepherd bared its teeth, issuing snarl of warning as it strained against its lead.

  The soldier finally met his eye. ‘You know perfectly well what is going to happen. We have no choice – euthanasia’s the only cure.’

  Novak let his arm drop, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut as he turned back to the four on their knees. There was nothing he could do now other than pay witness.

  Standing behind the kneeling people, the two soldiers drew their handguns, and after a silent glance at each other, they each lined up their first victim and fired. Heads whipped forward, faces exploding outwards with the exit of the bullet. Boneless, their bodies slumped forward into a puddle of their own gore. The two soldiers quickly moved onto their next target, finishing the job before their remaining victims had a chance to react. The soldiers holstered their guns, and then taking hold of a body by hands and feet, began to move them into the waiting shipping container.

  Outside in the queue, the dog was amongst them again. Gone was the behavioural expression of fear as it darted in and out of their legs, inspecting each person in turn.

  ‘Right, move on through,’ the soldier said, satisfied that the early infections had been weeded out.

  Novak looked back at those following him and shook his head quietly at his own failure. Fifteen people left out of seventy, and not one of the police officers under his command remained. What a fucking joke. He knew the army had no other option, had figured he’d be stuck with the ugly job himself once the infection started to take hold. Revulsion cramped his gut as he recognised a degree of relief that the role of executioner had been taken from him. Surely he owed them that much, a trusted person to explain why it was necessary and to end it painlessly?

  Novak turned away and headed for the turnstiles at the end of the fenced walkway. When he got his people through, his duty was finished as far as he was concerned. It was the army’s responsibility from there. If his superiors saw it differently, they could go and get bitten by a Carrier for all he cared. He waited while each of his evacuees passed by and through the turnstile, then stepped through himself. Novak called his group together on the far side. They gathered around looking expectantly at him. The look of dependence steeled his resolve, he needed this part to finish.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get more of you through. Each one of you earned it. You played as much a part in your own survival through that journey as I did. My job ends here though; the army will evacuate you to wherever they think is safe.’ Novak looked down, not wanting to meet their eyes.

  When he raised his gaze, a couple had already broken off, making for the grassed oval, however most of the group were still there. Not one of them was looking at him with contempt. One of the women stepped forward, taking his hand in her own.

  ‘Sergeant, you didn’t fail us. Thank you,’ she gave his hand a squeeze, then departed. The remainder of those present, shook his hand, mumbling their thanks before heading for the oval. Part of Novak unclenched as the burden was shed.

  The sun cut through a gap in the clouds above, casting shadows in stark contrast on the concrete at his feet. Novak felt his heart stutter in shock at the first spattering’s of fire from the machine gun emplacements. He felt bile rise at the back of his throat with the realisation of what it meant. Looking out across the park, past the sandbag redoubts, the first of the attacking Carriers could be seen. There was no order to their approach ‒ the dead knew no strategy. The swarm from Crown Street had finally reached the military cordon, attracted by the density of uninfected people and noise of the retrieval helicopters.

  A Minimi machine gun was incapable of single shots. Gunners used short bursts to improve accuracy, however, the weapon was designed for stopping soldiers with hideous trauma to “centre of mass” organs such as lung, heart and abdomen. Such a strategy proved useless against the Infected. Anything other than a direct hit to the brain was ineffective. Novak saw multiple of the walking dead knocked from their feet, flattened as machine gun fire hit their torsos, only to crawl back to standing and continue forward, their desire for carnage unchanged.

  Novak thought he’d feel panic at such a sight. Instead he felt grim resignation. He’d done all he could, now it was out of his hands and as it appeared; he was screwed. The weight of numbers would overwhelm the poor bastards at the military perimeter, leaving his only chance a helicopter evacuation before the Infected reached the interior of the SCG. Novak turned and ran for the nearest entrance. Other people around him joined in the rush, panic overcoming reason as a base need for survival trumped all other thoughts. Novak saw a young man trip and disappear beneath the crush, trampled underfoot. He found himself in the general admission stand, and joined other people climbing over the chairs to reach the grassed oval.

  The north end of the playing field was roped off as a landing area for the Chinook helicopters. The southern part of the oval was crammed with people, shoulder to shoulder in a heaving mass as each tried to push to the front for evacuation. Novak stood at the rear of th
e crowd, a simmering rage brewing once more. There was no chance that any more than a handful of the crowd would leave here safely. The Infected were likely only minutes away.

  A gut-twisting scream echoed from the stands above. Novak’s gaze flicked upwards looking for the owner of the cry, and felt the hairs stand up straight on his neck. Carriers spilled from multiple exits, lurching forward to people yet to descend from the stands. Their appearance was hellish, bodies torn by machine gun fire, hanging sections of flesh and clothes, bloody and burnt. The crowd on the oval surged away, breaking through the containment fence towards the remaining helicopter. The Chinook was filled to capacity already and preparing for take-off, the twin rotor blades spinning faster into a blur as it began to lift from the ground. The forerunners of the crowd clasped at the wheels in desperation as it rose into the air, only to drop from the sky as their strength gave out.

  The Infected reached the oval, tearing their way forward, a meat grinder of humanity. Novak checked his magazine. Five bullets remained. He would take four of the undead out, and save the last round for himself. He paced towards the advancing line of horror, calmly selecting his targets. As the fourth corpse dropped to the ground he upended the pistol, pressing the barrel end under his chin.

  Novak closed his eyes, willing himself to pull the trigger and bring an end to the nightmare. A scream tore open his eyes, and he found a young woman under attack to his immediate right. A pallid ghoul dragging its own entrails had its teeth buried in her shoulder, whipping its head from side to side to rip out a mouthful of tissue. Instinctively, Novak levelled his gun at the creature, and fired; his last round used to save a girl that would soon be dead regardless. The girl ran without a backwards glance at her saviour.

  Novak’s eyes widened in horror as he realised the death to which he’d condemned himself. He threw away the handgun, drawing out the mason’s hammer as his last defence. He swung the chiselled spike with adrenalin-fuelled strength into the face of an attacking Carrier, puncturing the forehead and brain behind. He had become separated from the main body of the crowd, surrounded by the undead. As he wrenched the hammer out of the skull, he felt burning fire lance through his upper arm, as a chunk of bicep was ripped free. In horror he smashed his hammer through the gore rimmed teeth responsible. Suddenly, he was falling, his right leg pulled from beneath. Novak landed on his back, above him the sky was blocked out by four dead faces, crouching down to feed. He couldn’t escape, there was nowhere to run, nothing left to fight with. The fingers of a hand stabbed relentlessly into his abdomen with inhuman strength, bursting through the muscular wall and into the coils of intestine, ripping a handful free.

  Novak screamed, his whole world reduced to pure agony.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mark parked and cut the engine. Georgie had directed him to a marina on Kogarah Bay, a fan of piers that sprouted from the shore beneath the St George Motor Boat club. A southerly wind had gradually built through the day, sending white-capped waves to smash into moored boats and pylons. Georgie pointed out her boat, a nine-metre yacht with single mast that bucked against its ties. The craft was in beautiful condition, a brilliant white hull standing in direct contrast to the dirty grey water upon which it floated.

  Penny allowed Georgie to lead her to the yacht, hair whipping about her face as they traversed the pier out to the boat and below deck. Since being coaxed into the car after burying her family, Penny hadn’t spoken a word. She merely stared into space, refusing interaction with a world that had torn away everything she loved. Mark shouldered his pack, grabbing a rifle in each hand before following them out to the yacht. Once on board, he ducked through the low cabin door and deposited his load. The cabin was bigger than expected, able to sleep six people if required. A V-shaped double bed resided at the bow, on either side of a narrow walkway hung a set of bunks, with the lower bed doubling as a bench seat during the day. At the stern lay a galley kitchen with a gas stove and narrow sink for washing.

  Georgie started running through a checklist to ready the boat for open water. A frown creased her forehead as she checked the fuel volume, cursing at the low level. Petrol filled barely half of the tank.

  ‘Mark, how much fuel is in the ute?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t know, probably about thirty litres, do we need it?’

  ‘Yep, I want a back-up so we don’t have to rely on the sail to move.’

  She retrieved a Jerry Can and siphon hose from a storage cupboard and handed it to him. ‘Once we’ve got that, we can leave. I’ll start removing the mooring lines while you do it, ok?’

  Mark climbed back up to the pier and found Peter standing with his hands in his pockets, looking towards the Captain Cook Bridge east of the marina. The apparent lack of activity or concern in his body language immediately gave Mark the shits; the guy was dead weight. He handed Peter the can and hose along with his keys.

  ‘Have you used a siphon hose before?’

  Peter looked blankly at him.

  ‘I take that’s a no then.’ Mark gave him a brief run down on how to do it and left him to trudge back to the ute.

  Peter grumbled to himself as he walked away, annoyed with his allocated task. He stopped at the beginning of the pier, looking around the car park for any danger. The place was deserted. Fifteen metres back from the ute, a door into the boat club swung free on its hinges in the gusting wind. The interior was hidden from sight, and Peter had no desire to go exploring. Satisfied that he was alone for the moment, he walked to the vehicle, unlocked the driver’s door and flicked the latch to unlock the fuel cap. Setting up the siphoning rig took only seconds. ‘Who wouldn’t know how to use a siphon hose? Condescending bastard,’ he muttered.

  While petrol filled the can, Peter drew the hood of his jumper overhead for warmth. He turned his back to the boat club and looked over at the yacht. Mark and Georgie were moving around, tying off ropes and generally looking useful. He felt something wet soak through his jeans. Looking downwards, he swore to himself in frustration. The Jerry Can had overflowed and now fuel was pouring onto the ground. He jerked the end of the hose from the car to stop the siphon.

  A hand clamped around his neck, and fingers like steel bands crushed his windpipe from behind. His vertebrae creaked painfully and prevented his neck from turning to see his attacker. Rotten breath exhaled past his ear as the Carrier drew close, a low growl issuing before it latched onto his left shoulder. Peter whimpered as he felt the teeth finally penetrate the material of his jumper into the skin below. He battered at the hand around his neck then grabbed hold of a single finger, ripping it backwards. The joint gave way with a crunch to leave the finger standing at an odd angle from the rest.

  The Carrier ignored the small trauma, disengaging teeth from his shoulder for a less guarded area. One vicious bite and tug ripped Peter’s ear clean from the side of his head. He screamed at the burning pain before the grip on his throat tightened, cutting it off. He couldn’t breathe, his trachea was crushed. Another bite tore into the side of his head as his chest burned for air. Vision greyed at the lack of oxygen, and then mercifully he knew no more.

  Mark stood abruptly, banging the top of his head into the low roof of the cabin.

  ‘Hey Georgie, did you hear that?’ He cocked his head to the side listening, but there was nothing more to hear above the hollow whistle of wind through the rigging. Georgie shrugged, unsure.

  ‘I’m going to check it out, be back in a sec.’

  He picked up the Sako rifle and climbed back onto the pier. Wind borne droplets of water spattered across his face as he jogged back to land, the wooden slats bouncing under foot with each step. As he neared the Ute, the acrid smell of spilt petrol irritated his nose. Mark slowed, hackles rising on the back of his neck. He scanned the car park for the presence of anyone else.

  A loud crash echoed from the adjacent building as wind slammed an open door against the wall, shattering the glass pane within. Shadows moved within the doorway, someone was heading his w
ay. Mark edged around to the side of the ute with the fuel tank. He saw Peter’s feet first, toes to ground as he lay prone on the bitumen. A Carrier knelt on his back with the fingers of one hand locked about Peter’s neck. It was wearing dirty blue overalls, a grimy rats tail hanging down the back of a pallid neck. Peter wasn’t moving, his face pale blue, eyes bulging with a look of surprise.

  Mark chambered a round and shot the Carrier through the back of its skull. It fell to the side and lay still. Mark leant forward and felt for a pulse at Peter’s neck, nothing. Movement caught Mark’s attention. Behind him, four stumbling men had emerged from the door into the grey winters light. It was time to go.

  He screwed the Jerry can’s lid in place, picked it up and ran for the yacht. As he came within earshot, he called for Georgie to cast off. Her head sprang above the back of the boat at her name and her eyes widened at the approaching threat. She disappeared from view for a moment as she started the boat’s motor, then leapt above deck, scrambling for the bow to release the mooring line. The chasing Carriers had now reached the wood of the pier behind Mark as he unhooked the stern line and dropped into the back of the boat, dumping the petrol can to the side. Both Georgie and Mark pushed against the edge of the pier, trying to drive the boat away from the side. It gradually moved, the bow pointing outwards, however the stern was still less than a metre from the dock. The first of the Infected reached the pier next to them and blindly stepped off for the boat, arms reaching forward. Its feet missed, however, momentum carried it far enough that the chest landed across the edge of the boat. Growling, it wrenched itself forward with its hands, trying to drag its legs in. Mark drew the sword from the scabbard at his waist, and with a vicious underhand swing, brought the blade up into its face, the metal biting deep into the cheek and forehead. The force of the blow, knocked the body backwards to slide beneath the water, its hands vainly reaching for purchase. The yacht was now two metres off the pier, and the remaining Carriers fell harmlessly into the water.