by Luke Duffy
For the next three weeks, they indulged themselves in an orgy of drink, drugs and sex. They both agreed that the end of the world was nigh and decided to go out with a bang. That was until Roland walked into the bathroom to discover that Zoe had taken an overdose and was lying in a hot bubble bath, waiting for death. He had attempted to make her sick, to bring up the pills she had swallowed but it was no use, she was too far-gone; there was nothing he could do to stop her from dying.
In her delirium, she asked Roland to take care of her when she was gone. The thought horrified him.
How was he supposed to do it? Was he supposed to smash her head in, stab a knife through her eye and into her brain?
"Fuck you, Zoe," he spat at her. "You chose this, not me. You can stay in here and fucking rot for all I care." He locked the door and left her to die.
Now she was bouncing about in the master bedroom, knocking over furniture and struggling to break free. Roland wished to himself that he had dragged her body out of the bathroom and tossed it out of the window when he had had the chance. It was too late now, she was in there, she would stay in there and he had no desire to go opening the door to her.
He had seen people die from the bites. He had watched a number of unfortunate people suffer from the infection and fever, only to return as ravenous ghouls. He did not intend to risk that fate on himself for the sake of Zoe.
The rumbling of jet engines brought his attention away from the reanimated corpse of Zoe and back to the window. In the distance, silhouetted in the orange sky created by the slowly setting sun, he saw another aircraft headed for him. It looked much the same as the last one. It swooped low over the buildings and raced towards him with a howling screech.
Roland slowly raised himself to his feet, not taking his eyes off the approaching aircraft. His shin hit the edge of the coffee table, the pain barely registering in his clouded mind as he watched the plane draw nearer. Its engines were screaming and again, he could see the discoloured and distorted vapour trail that the jet produced in its wake.
He staggered to the window, muttering to himself as the aircraft grew in size. "Come on, you bastard. Here I am, come on, that's it."
The black shape of the Tornado banked to the left slightly and soared over the apartment that threatened to collapse in on him because of the shockwave. The building held fast and Roland found himself still standing. He was about to curse the pilot, to call him every name he could think of for missing him again.
Then, he saw them.
They glided through the air toward him. He watched them in slow motion as they majestically tumbled alongside one another, rotating in a hypnotic dance as gravity and momentum carried the two long black cylindrical shapes toward the tall apartment building.
"Oh God," Roland exclaimed with a smile and a gasp of relief, "Oh God, thank you."
He tensed his body, raised his head and thrust his arms down by his side. He kept his eyes focussed on the two hurtling bombs that fell towards him.
They were just metres away now.
He gritted his teeth. They were so close that he believed he could almost see the stencilling of numbers and letters on the side of the bombs.
He grinned through clenched teeth. "Here we go..."
18
"There'll be nothing left," Marcus sighed as he watched a tall apartment building take a direct hit, destroying the top half of it in a ball of fire.
Before it became dark, Marcus gave the order to move out. The idea of being on the bridge without being able to see anything approaching was enough to pull them from the vision before them.
They continued along the ring road, looking for somewhere to rest for the night. A maintenance road led them away into the wilderness and away from prying eyes, dead or living. It was narrow and overhung by trees that screened them from the air. Marcus was concerned that reconnaissance planes or even helicopters carrying more troops may appear in the sky above them. The high hedges and thick canopy of trees provided them with the cover they needed.
As the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, the team found themselves at a junction on the outskirts of a small village and unsure of which direction they should turn. On the corner, set back from the road and nestled amongst a clump of trees, was a rustic looking old country pub. Its uneven and whitewashed walls with a low thatched roof gave the impression that it had been cut off from the technological and architectural advances of the previous one hundred years.
The sign hanging above the door read: 'The Prince of Wales'.
Stu looked across at Marcus and grinned. "Looks like the Ritz to me, mate."
Marcus bit his lip and glanced to his left and right along the country lane, unsure of whether or not he wanted to spend the night in relative comfort in the pub but blinded by the walls, or in the open where they could see any threat in advance.
Jim leaned over from the gunner's position on top. "Come on, Marcus, we're in the middle of nowhere. With everything going on in the city, I bet there isn't a single dead fuck left around here."
Marcus turned to Stu who looked back at him with puppy dog eyes. "Okay, but we have someone on sentry at all times."
"Great," Stu clapped his hands together. "I'm dying for a pint."
Marcus backed the Land Rover in the parking area at the front of the pub and close to the door. Sini and Jim joined him as he did a check around the outside of the building while Stu and Hussein remained with the vehicle and Sandra.
The public house was well shielded from prying eyes, and beyond the trees there was nothing but sprawling open fields, with the outskirts of the village to the west and south. The area was clear and the three of them wasted no time in gaining entry into the building through the unlocked back door.
Carefully, Marcus pushed the creaking door open with one hand while he raised his rifle to an aim with the other, pointing the barrel into the gloomy kitchen at the back of the building. Nothing charged at them from out of the darkness, so he slowly inched his way in over the threshold.
The mouldy smell was the first thing they noticed, but it was just the smell of stale air mixed with the damp that was to be expected in any old building made with ancient wooden beams and wattle and daub plaster. The absence of the smell of rotting flesh helped to ease their nerves as they pushed deeper in to the dark building.
Nothing moved inside. The three of them stood for a few minutes, listening for the faintest sound that would warn them that they were not alone. To their relief, the place was empty.
"They'll have to send in more ground troops at some point," Stu suggested later that night as they all sat huddled around the fireplace as the flames crackled and popped in front of them.
Its orange warming glow comforted them, putting the team at ease, and Marcus had ensured that all the curtains in the windows were pulled tight and that no light would leak out to give away their position.
"I guess so," Marcus nodded. "But I can't understand what they're hoping to achieve. Those poor bastards didn't stand a chance today."
Stu held out a mug of tea and picked up the bottle of brandy he had liberated from behind the bar and poured a generous measure into the cup.
"What do you mean?" he asked as he slurped at the hot liquid and then passed it to Marcus.
"Well, let's suppose that they manage to clear out the whole of London, what are they going to do then? Rebuilding the city isn't really an option these days and there's always the problem with the dead."
"Maybe they'll get rid of them?"
"And how are they going to do that? They may get the ones in the city, but what about the millions more outside? They are everywhere, they outnumber the living by a huge margin and I bet that margin is growing by the day. They don't seem to abide by trespass laws and have you ever seen them shy away from weapons? But okay, say they clear and secure London, I'm pretty sure that there isn't enough ordinance, manpower and aircraft to do the same to every city in the country."
"You're not exactly optimis
tic, are you?" Stu said with a slight smile.
Marcus slowly shook his head and looked back at him as he took a sip from his cup. The flickering glow of the fire made his face look contorted and twisted as he spoke.
"Nah, mate," he said raising the cup to his lips again and taking a long gulp. "I think we've well and truly lost this one. It's just down to the likes of us now to survive as best as we can."
"You think we will, Marcus?" Sini asked from his position beside Sandra who was tucked up in a sleeping bag, staring at the fire as she listened to the conversation.
"Survive you mean?" Marcus asked. "Good question."
Hussein sighed. "We have made it this far, we have to make it."
Stu nudged the young Iraqi at his side. "Hey, look at the honorary Brit here. One minute, he's planting bombs and firing rockets at us, now he wants a bowler hat and an umbrella to walk about with."
Hussein laughed. "Maybe you could give me an English name, like Mr. Smith or something. Do you think it would suit me?"
Everyone laughed, all except Marcus who sat quietly staring at the fire.
Stu watched him for a moment. Marcus seemed to be drifting in his thoughts, staring into nothingness as though something else was at the forefront of his mind.
"Are you thinking about the wife and kids?"
"Hmm," Marcus nodded.
"At least you have your wife and kids to go home to, Marcus," Sandra suddenly said in her thick Serbian accent. It was the first time she had spoken all evening.
"I was lucky to survive. My whole family were killed, murdered," she continued to stare into the flames, a tear trickling down her cheek. "Babies, my sisters were only babies and those monsters tore them apart." She sniffed and turned to look at Marcus, her eyes shining with tears.
"I am not speaking of the dead monsters, Marcus. I speak of the human monsters wearing uniforms that came, raped my sisters, my mother and then shot them as my father was forced to watch. You are very lucky, Marcus." She sunk her head into her shoulders and turned back to staring at the fire.
"We should try the radio again," Stu suggested, trying to break the sudden silence. "I'll go wake up Jim for his shift."
Marcus watched him as he walked away from the fire, his silhouette becoming invisible in the dark room, but he could still hear him. There was a clunk as something collided with a piece of hard furniture.
"Fuck! Christ that hurt," Stu hissed.
Marcus could hear Stu cursing under his breath as he tried to feel his way toward the slumbering Jim who could be heard from the other side of the room as he snored. He had seen and heard the exact same scene played out a million times before, from the days when he was in the army.
During the middle of the night, while on exercise or operations, someone would always walk into a tree or fall over a pack. Even accidentally stand on one of their friends while they searched for the next man on the list who was to relieve them on sentry duty, creating a ruckus even though they had tried so hard to remain quiet and tactical.
The forestry block, or patch of dead ground that they were sheltering in, would echo with the thuds, scrapes and curses of men trying, and failing miserably, to locate each other in the dark.
Marcus raised his finger to his lips to ensure that Hussein and Sini remained quiet while he listened for the next instalment of predictable events and dialogue. Then, he heard the telltale sound of a rustling sleeping bag as Stu found Jim and attempted to wake him.
"Jim, wake up. Jim, it's your stag, mate," Stu hissed in from the pitch black.
There was no answer from the thick green sleeping bag other than the loud snoring of the American.
"Jim, it's your turn on guard. Get up."
There was more rustling of the sleeping bag as Jim was finally roused from his sleep. He grunted and Marcus sat smiling as he pictured Jim rubbing his head and feeling slightly confused.
"What, what's up?" Jim asked in a sleepy voice, not even attempting to whisper as Stu had done.
"It's your stag," Stu replied, still trying to keep the noise to a minimum.
Marcus tensed himself, a broad grin spreading across his face as he anticipated what the next question would be from Jim. He had experienced both sides of it so many times, having been the man being awakened, and doing the waking. He just knew it was coming.
"What, now?"
"No, you fucking moron. In four hours time, that is why I am waking you up now, just to let you know. Get up, you stupid redneck."
Marcus could not hold it any longer and he began to laugh. The more he tried to control it, the more he laughed. It was infectious, too, because although they did not fully understand what was so funny about what was happening, Sini and Hussein were also in fits of laughter in front of the fire.
Even Sandra giggled from inside the sleeping bag.
"Is it working?" Stu asked later that night as he looked down at the radio on the table. Marcus and Stu were sitting close to the window, the antenna poking out into the night.
"Not sure," Marcus shrugged.
He was sitting beside it with a torch gripped between his teeth as he adjusted the frequency and attempted to tune it in.
"I think we got the antenna length right this time and I'm pretty sure it's tuned in okay."
"Give it a try then," Stu nodded at him.
Marcus raised the hand set to his lips. He hesitated and glanced back at Stu.
"Go on."
"Steve, it’s Marcus, can you hear me?" He waited a moment. "Steve, are you there, bro?"
He leaned over and checked the dial on the side of the heavy radio casing. The needle hung in the middle of the graph, indicating that the radio was correctly tuned.
"Steve, are you there? It's Marcus."
"Maybe they don't have their radio on?" Stu suggested.
Marcus looked up, realising that Stu could be thinking the worst and trying to convince his self otherwise. It had not occurred to him that something could have happened to the park and he had just felt frustrated at his lack of skill with the radio. Now though, thoughts of the creatures rampaging through the house where his family took refuge raced through his mind. A shiver ran down his spine and he physically shuddered at the images.
He shook his head. "I'm sure they're fine. It's just us being useless with this thing."
Again, he turned his attention to the frequency dials, the tuning switch then and the antenna. All seemed in order and correct.
"Steve, Jake, anyone are you hearing me? Is there anyone there? Pick up." His voice had a note of anxiety attached to it.
A voice, faint and crackly, drifted through the earpiece of the radio. "Marcus, is that you?"
Marcus' eyes widened as he looked back up at Stu. "Yeah, it's me. Is that Jake?"
"No, it's Gary, it's good to hear from you, Marcus. We were starting to worry."
"No need to worry, mate. We're fine." Marcus began to relax. He could feel his shoulders settle and he realised that he had been tensing the muscles in his back and legs.
"How is everyone, where is Steve?"
There was a pause. "Steve isn't here, Marcus."
Another moment of silence as Gary was obviously trying to form the right words. Marcus could feel his muscles stiffening again and the dread knotting in his stomach.
"They've been missing since yesterday. They went to find fuel, and they never came back. Jake and a few others went with him."
Marcus ran his hand through his hair and looked up at Stu, "Shit." He raised the handset to his mouth and ear again and he took a deep breath. "Okay, Gary, there isn't a lot I can do about that. Hopefully they've just run into a spot of trouble and will be back soon." He was concentrating hard on not imagining the worst and just hoping for the best. "What about Jen and the boys? Is Sarah okay?"
"Yeah, they're fine." There was a touch of relief in Gary's voice; probably at the fact that he had told Marcus what he needed to tell him and Marcus had dealt with it.
"I'll go and get them for you."
Two minutes later and the voice of a very excited and relieved Jennifer poured out through the radio.
"Oh baby, we were so worried. Are you okay, where are you?"
Marcus could feel a lump building in his throat. Just hearing the sound of his wife's voice flooded him with an overwhelming sense of joy.
"We're okay, Jen. I'm in a pub with the lads." He could not resist the quip.
"A pub, that's typical of men. Even when the world is coming to an end, you still find time for the pub," she joked in reply.
For a few minutes, Marcus and Jennifer spoke about their sons and Steve. She did her best to sound positive but it was the not knowing and concern that came through in her voice.
"I'm sure they'll be okay, Jen," Marcus assured her.
"How is everyone, Marcus?" she asked. She sounded expectant of bad news.
Marcus sighed and glanced back up at Stu.
"France was rough going, Jen. We lost three men, including Yan and Ian. Do you remember Ian?"
"Oh, Marcus, I'm so sorry. Yes, I remember Ian, and I know how close you were."
"Yeah, he was a good man." He breathed in slowly, steadying himself from the emotion that threatened to burst out of him at the memory of losing Ian. "We took care of him, though, and brought him back to England. It's what he wanted."
They spoke for a while longer and Marcus gave them an idea of where they were. Jennifer and Gary must have been cross-referencing his explanations and directions to a map they had been looking at because Jennifer's voice grew in excitement when she realised that her husband was just a few hours’ drive away, but that was a few hours in the old days.
Now it could be weeks.
Later that night, Marcus lay in his sleeping bag, his arms folded across his chest as he stared up at the dark ceiling. He was struggling to fall sleep. Though his body craved rest and his eyes felt heavy, his mind raced. His thoughts constantly flitted from one subject to the next.
He worried about his brother. Steve was missing after going out to find more fuel, along with a number of the other survivors from the park. He knew there was nothing he could do, but he could not help but feel concerned. Steve was by no means an idiot or a weakling, but Marcus did not know the people he was with, or their abilities, and it was that that could get a person killed now.
