Up From the Depths: Book 4 Movement to Contact

by J. R. Jackson

  “Was that an earthquake?” Berg asked.

  “Either that or someone dropped one helluva a bowling ball,” Driscoll replied. “Whatever it was, it’s over now,” he stated. Focusing his attention on his two visitors, he began to speak. “I’m surprised your group has made it as long as they have. You either rationed whatever food you have or you’ve been scavenging.”

  The two boys shared a look. It had been a combination of both.

  “Tell you what, you two head on back to your building but take along a little present from us,” Driscoll stood and walked outside leaving the boys to ponder what he was doing. He re-appeared a short time later with a container which he presented to them.

  “As a token of good faith between our two groups,” he said as he presented the container to Jimbo. “You tell whomever you have in charge over there that you’re all welcome here when you get tired of living in that drafty building. Winter’s coming and you’ll want to be somewhere warmer.” The boy’s nodded agreement, stood, shook Driscoll’s hand and left the room. Before they left the complex they were able to get a good look at the courtyard. It had been converted into a large garden plot complete with fruit trees. A small greenhouse was in the center of the garden. Once they were outside the gate, they stopped, looked back at the building then turned and made their way back to the warehouse.

  A few blocks from the complex, curiosity got the better of them and they stopped.

  “What he give us?” Berg asked as Jimbo pried open the Tupperware container.

  “Damn,” Jimbo muttered once he saw the contents.

  It was full of fresh fruit and vegetables.

  ***

  Chapter 18

  RMA Sandhurst, Camberley, Surrey, United Kingdom

  Jack Larkin stood looking down at the bed that he had recently shared with Leesa Tobias. It was still made from the day that she had been killed. Each night when he returned to the room, he stood at the end of the bed and looked at it. And each night he unrolled his sleeping bag and slept on the floor. His weapons, the sword, handgun, and rifle, were always within reach. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since that day.

  What would he say?

  The soldiers would nod to him when he passed them in the halls. The civilian survivors would hug the walls and avoid eye contact. Since Leesa’s death, Larkin spent most of his time in their shared room cleaning his weapons and sharpening the sword. Higgins had tried several times to engage him in conversation to no avail.

  Larkin was sitting cross-leg on the floor, his back to the hallway, running a whetstone along the edge of the sword, touching up the Appleseed Edge, when Higgins knocked on the doorframe.

  “Hey mate,” Higgins said in greeting. Larkin paused in mid stroke not bothering to look up before resuming work on the blade, his primary focus.

  Higgins took this as an invitation and stepped into the room. Larkin continued to methodically run the stone along the blade. Higgins looked around the room; Larkin’s pack was leaning against the wall next to the door and the bed didn’t look like it had been slept in.

  “You planning on going somewhere?” Higgins asked breaking into the rhythmic sound of the whetstone running along the blade. Larkin paused in his work then continued, ignoring his long time friend.

  “Are you going to sit there all day and sharpen that bloody thing?” Higgins asked angrily.

  Larkin stopped, turned his head and looked at him from the corner of his eye then continued. Higgins squatted down next to Larkin.

  “You can’t lock yourself away in here. People are concerned about you,” Higgins said trying a different tact. Larkin put the whetstone down and picked up a rag to wipe the blade clean. He tossed the rag down and stood up fast enough to unbalance Higgins who fell back against the wall before straightening up. He watched as Larkin walked to the window and looked down the blade, slowly turning it, looking for imperfections.

  “Mate, I know you’re having a tough time right now,” Higgins said as he regained his footing. Larkin spun on him and pushed him against the wall, forearm across his throat. Larkin leaned in close to his friend when he spoke.

  “You don’t know a bloody thing,” he said in a harsh whisper before he removed his arm.

  Higgins slowly reached up and rubbed his neck as Larkin slid the sword into its scabbard on the duty belt and strapped the belt around his waist. He watched as his friend picked up the Browning Hi-Power, ejected the magazine, worked the slide a few times to make sure the chamber was clear then slid the magazine back in and chambered a round. The pistol went into the holster that was opposite the sword. Two spare magazines went into the pouches on the belt. Larkin picked up the SA80, pulled the magazine out, visually inspected the rounds then slapped it back into place, chambered a round then set the safety. He leaned the rifle against the bed frame before walking to his pack, squatting down and began checking and adjusting the straps.

  “You going somewhere?” Higgins asked again cautiously massaging his throat. Larkin glared at him as he finished adjusting the straps then stood and slung the pack onto his shoulders.

  Shrugging a little to settle the weight, he turned and grabbed the rifle slinging it over one shoulder and his neck until it hung barrel down across his chest. Larkin stepped towards the door but Higgins grabbed his arm.

  “You’re leaving,” he said more a statement than a question.

  Larkin looked down at Higgins hand then back up into this face. It was a cold, menacing, predatory gaze that made Higgins release his grip and involuntarily step back. Larkin stepped into the doorway, paused, and looked back at his friend before walking out of the room.

  ***

  Larkin was down the stairs and at the main doors by the time Higgins caught up with him. Since the attack, several new security methods had been implemented. The primary one being that no one was allowed outside the buildings unless they were part of the assigned work crew. Entry and exit was through the main doors of each building past a security detachment that verified who you were, what you were doing, where you were going, the estimated time of your return, and what your business was in the building you were entering. Everyone was required to sign in and sign out so that an accurate count of their whereabouts was on record in the event of another incursion by the infected.

  Higgins caught up with to Larkin as he was signing out. He tried to push through to stop Larkin but was himself stopped by the soldiers and forced to sign out. By the time he made it outside, Larkin was halfway to the Staff College Gate.

  “Oi!” Higgins called out jogging to catch up. Larkin stopped and waited.

  “You can’t just walk away from here!” Higgins stated angrily.

  Larkin stopped, hung his head then turned to his friend, his eyes flint hard.

  “She was pregnant.”

  Higgins’ mouth gaped open, his eyes wide in shock at Larkin’s statement.

  “What are you going to do out there?” Higgins asked, finding his voice.

  Larkin stopped walking and looked at him.

  “Bloody hell mate! There’s nothing out there, you know that,” Higgins stated.

  Larkin looked around at the academy grounds before he focused on his old friend.

  “There’s nothing here for me,” Larkin stated simply before he turned and continued walking to the gate. Higgins, not knowing how to respond, watched his friend’s image recede into the distance before turning and walking back to Victory Building, his head hanging down.

  ***

  Larkin walked purposely forward to the security checkpoint just inside the gate. Laying the pencil down after signing, he turned and looked one last time at Sandhurst before walking out the gate. There were too many memories here for him to remain. Stopping just outside the gate, he looked around. Turning and following the access road that fronted the former army staff college, he walked until he saw the overgrown rugby pitch. Following that road to the woods, he shrugged his shoulders to adjust his pack; looked back one last time at the walled academy t
hen stepped off the road and into the forest. As his form disappeared into the shadows cast from the trees, another shape stepped out from behind a small stand of oak. This shape was smaller in stature than Larkin, carried a larger pack but moved with fluid smoothness. The rifle slung over one shoulder was tight against their back as they followed Larkin.

  Larkin made his way through the now familiar woods along the path that he had taken so many times previously. He paused at the tree line and gazed out at the empty fields and houses. Looking back in the direction he had come from, he thought he saw movement. Shaking his head, he knew no one was there. No one would be dumb enough to follow him outside the fences. Moving down the winding path, he reached the bottom of the small hill and began walking towards his flat. He really had no plan or idea what he was doing. He just needed to get away from somewhere that her memory constantly haunted him.

  His footsteps on the empty streets seemed loud but he knew it was just the lack of ambient noise. Several times since leaving the forest he had gotten a feeling that someone or something was following him, he had ignored that feeling because he knew there was no one left alive in the area. Opening the gate, he entered the small courtyard in front of his apartment.

  Closing and locking the gate he crossed the open area approaching the door to his old apartment. Opening the door, he hadn’t left it locked; he stepped into the empty and cold building. Closing the door behind him, he shrugged his pack off and looked around.

  Everything was as it had been left.

  He checked the stove and was surprised to see that the gas still worked. It was just a matter of time before that stopped but he had a camping stove and several canisters of fuel in the exterior storage room of his flat. He’d use those sparingly when the time came and then work on his fire building skills. Dropping the rifle on the couch as he passed, he unbuckled the duty belt and let it drop to the floor as he walked to his bedroom. Stopping in the doorway he looked at a room filled with now useless possessions given the world’s changed environment. He sat on the bed and looked at the movie posters on the wall, the scale models of film creatures on the shelves and desk, all mementos of a life that no longer existed. If only he had been able to see how the world would be in a few short years, he would have been more prepared.

  Hindsight, as it’s been said, is always 20/20.

  Leaning forward, elbows on knees, he rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Images flowed inside his head, hiking in Wales, riding his bike to the hotel and Leesa. Always there were images of Leesa. He silently wept at the loss of her.

  Wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, he glanced around the room then down the hall towards the front door. Had he closed it? Maybe he hadn’t locked it. He stood and walked quietly to the front door. It was locked; he had locked it when he closed it. He stared at the door for several seconds before wandering back down the short hall to the bedroom. He sat on the bed then fell back and stared at the ceiling. The movement of the clouds cast light and shadow through the window and played a kaleidoscope on the white ceiling.

  Larkin lay there for some time. The day vanished only to be replaced by the cloak of night. He awoke to a darkened room not aware that he had slept. His hands raced to his waist to find nothing. His sword and rifle were by the front door. Lurching up and racing to the front of the small apartment, he was unable to locate his pack or his weapons. In a panic, he crouched expecting something to come at him from the darkness. Had he closed and locked the door? That thought raced through his mind as he realized he had left his weapons in the front room by the door.

  Moving quickly yet quietly through his darkened apartment, he was eager to check the door and get back to his weapons. Larkin froze in the hall, the front door was ajar. He was certain he had closed the door when he first entered. There was a shuffling sound from the room, somewhere in there was one of more of the infected. Remaining still, Larkin listened for more sounds of movement. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he tensed then moved as fast as he could towards the location that he had left his pack. Tripping over something on the floor, he slid until he struck his pack which fell onto his head. Struggling up, the tossed the pack towards the noise he heard and felt for the duty belt that held his pistol and sword. Patting the floor before feeling the familiar material, he gripped the belt and unsheathed his sword, spinning around, backing against the door to close it, blade up and ready.

  The shuffling came closer, the waft of rotted, decaying flesh hit him as a dark shape materialized out of the shadows. Larkin moved his sword in preparation to strike when a hand gripped his wrist.

  “No. Do it this way,” a voice said from the darkness as it guided his arm and hand to a different position. Larkin was stunned but allowed his arm to be moved.

  “Now, strike!” the voice ordered.

  Larkin swung and hit the infected; the blade shuddered in his hand as it bit deep into the clavicle.

  “Recover,” the voice said.

  Larkin struggled to remove the blade from the infected until the sword sprung free.

  “Again, strike.”

  Larkin swung again and cleanly cleaved the head off the rotted body amid a spray of tissue and sticky blood. He saw the shadow fall and then a red haze crept into his vision. He started hacking and slashing at the body on the floor removing great chunks from the corpse as tears dripped from his eyes. It was only then that he realized that his voice was hoarse and he had been screaming. Stopping only because his arm was tired, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  Larkin looked over at the man that stood beside him through bleary eyes.

  The Ghurka studied him for a few seconds.

  “You shouldn’t let one target fixate you,” M’Banga said. “There could have been others in this room and you would now be dead.”

  Larkin nodded his head.

  “You have some skill but you need refinement if you want to survive long out here,” M’Banga said.

  “I’m fine,” Larkin said.

  “No, you’re not fine. You barely know how to survive,” he said looking around the room. “Your rifle is out of reach as is your sidearm.” Shaking his head, he walked over and picked up the SA80. “This should be with you at all times. You may drop your sword, lose your sidearm, but never drop your long arm. This is a weapon even when empty,” he said, moving stealthily in the dark to light a lantern. He turned and showed Larkin how to mount the bayonet to the rifle and showed him some basic thrusts and blocks before he handed the rifle to Larkin.

  “There are things I will show you, ways I will train you that you will use as if they were always a part of you,” he added.

  Larkin nodded dumbly as he clumsily buckled the belt around his waist and moved to sheath the bloody sword.

  “No,” M’Banga commanded, stepping forward and stopping him. “You clean your weapons before you sheath them. Always. Never allow a weapon to be tainted by the blood of an unworthy enemy.”

  Larkin nodded understanding.

  “I will teach you to understand the enemy, to learn his methods, how to find a weakness and exploit it,” M’Banga stated. “You will know all I can teach you. Then, maybe, you will be ready.”

  ***

  Chapter 19

  Site R, Raven Rock Military Complex (RRMC)

  President Hamilton Jefferson Wood sat by his wife’s bed holding her hand. The various monitors that she was connected to, hummed, chirped and beeped in a quiet rhythm. Wood’s head was bowed, chin on chest as he slept. Outside the room, Erwin Grayson stood post along with several members of the Presidential Security Detail. They were supported by heavily armed members of the Secret Service Tactical Response Team. The added personnel were there due to the level of unrest that was now prevalent within RRMC. Since ordering the operations that sent what remaining forces the United States military retained into harm’s way, order and discipline within the facility had broken down.

  Admiral Romero, General Harrelson and General Wilbur at NORAD were the only new
ly appointed Joint Chiefs that stayed in their positions. The other officers resigned their commissions in protest of Wood’s orders to send everything they had after the people responsible for the outbreak. They felt that the operations were extraneous and a waste of resources that could be better used to secure the cities where there were minimal infected. This resulted in factions within Site R, at times hostile to each other, that eventually scavenged all they could from the dwindling supplies and left to search for family members or just to get away from what they now considered an underground tomb. With this wholesale pilfering, it forced those that remained behind to severely ration what was left. Most felt that command and control was no longer functioning.

  “Sir,” Grayson said from the doorway. Wood jerked awake then slowly lifted his head rubbing the back of his neck as he did.

  “Mr. President,” Grayson called again from the doorway. Wood nodded slowly working the kinks out of his neck before he stretched and stood.

  “I’m awake, Erwin,” Wood muttered as he shook his head and headed to the bathroom. Splashing water on his face, he blinked several times and ran his fingers through his hair, noting the beard he now sported. I look like a wild man not a president, he mentally said to his reflection.

  Drying his face and hands he exited the bathroom, glanced at the reclining form of his wife and stepped out of the room. Outside in the hall, one of the banks of overhead lights was flickering like a slow motion strobe light. The Tactical Response Team formed a cordon around Wood as soon as he exited weapons up and ready.

  Wood was hustled across the hall and into another room where Lonnie Packwood and Mike Dunlavy were waiting.

  “Mr. President,” Packwood said in greeting.

  “Sir,” Dunlavy intoned.