by Ricky Cooper
Fisher dropped to a knee beside Davies his Browning up and firing before he had even said a word.
'How long we got.'
Without breaking rhythm, Fisher responded.
'Two minutes thirty by my count then we are well and truly fucked, mag change.' Fisher dropped the magazine from his pistol, smoothly sliding another home in a well practised precise motion.
'That going to be enough time? We got about seven more boys to get over here, mag out.' Fisher shrugged as he fired, sending the shot off target slightly and watched as it hit the Infected beside the one he aimed at.
'Possibly or we are going to be jumping to a moving chopper.'
Davies groaned as he fired off another three rounds dropping two Infected and incapacitating another, he cringed slightly as he watched the round blast through the creature's throat, severing its spine. The Infected hit the floor, jaws snapping open and closed as its compatriots crushed it underfoot. Glancing over his shoulder he watched the last of the men unhook themselves from the cable and drop to the floor.
'Right boys, time to move.'
Davies snapped a shot off catching an Infected in the head, he watched in morbid fascination as the top of its skull vanished exposing the still semi functioning grey matter. The Infected stumbled slightly, but stayed up right the glazed eyes stared balefully forwards as the unfortunate being was pushed aside by it's brethren.
The damage however, was done, the Infected although still very much alive and conscious, stood stock still unable to move. Davies' bullet although not fatal had destroyed any and all motor functions it had once possessed. The thing would remain there immobile and still very much cognizant of its former life until nature took its course and returned the being back to the earth from whence it came.
Turning on his heel Davies ran, sprinting across the roof to the three metre jump to the next building, but was stopped short when he heard the familiar retort of a nine millimeter Browning. Turning his head in the direction of the noise he saw Fisher still on one knee desperately holding back the tide of Infected, slipping his hand through the drag hoop of Fishers harness, he pulled the soldier to his feet,
'Come on Soldier, we are leaving!'
Fisher shook his head, a severe sense of déjà-vu taking hold of him as he was pushed to the leading edge of the roof top.
Both men leapt the gap, time seeming to hang still as they sailed through the air, the Infected behind them reaching out in desperation, Fisher glanced back, to see several pitch head-first into the void between the buildings, the weight of those behind them tipping the balance on their footing, and sending them plummeting to the callous arms of the world below.
Davies watched the flat grey expanse of tarmac covered roof top as it rushed up to meet his descending body. He went limp, tucking his legs into his chest, as he hit the floor. Rolling over his shoulder, Davies was up and running before Fisher had even landed, seconds later the other man was sprinting to his side. The howling faded as both men continued running flat-out to catch the rest of team. The eighteen man squad stopped as one as they hit the far side of the final house. Thirty-six eyes stared out at what lay before them, time seemed to stand still as they froze in awe of the scene.
'Are they...is that...'
Kerr seemed lost for words, as he stared into the sea of dying flesh, the entire intersection was awash with Infected, in the midst of it all sat the CH-178 helicopter, the rotors turning lazily as the pilot watched in detached boredom the milling mass of Infected beyond the concrete and chain link barrier that surrounded the heliport.
'There's no way we're getting through that lot.'
Turning to the rest Sharp shook his head. 'Kerr's right, we aren't getting through this lot, any ideas Lads? We have,' he pulled up his sleeve and stared at his watch, 'One minute until he clears out and we're stranded.'
Simultaneously, Sheperd and Williams stepped forwards, a set look of utter finality painted on their stern features.
'We'll draw them off, run interference among them and get a path open for the rest of you, we can make another three days here easy. It's my fault you're in this mess anyway and Sheperd is our main path finder; so me and him will be fine, just drop us all the ammunition you can spare, and we should be good.'
The rest of the men opened their mouths to protest the decision as Williams raised his hand silencing them.
'No questions, no comments, this is a done deal, as I said this is my fault so you lot have no say. Sheperd is staying with me dunno why, but he is, so where's the mags lads?'
As Williams finished speaking, a rising roar was heard as the sixteen team members opened their vest pouches, the Velcro pulling apart as they dumped out their remaining magazines. Williams and Sheperd watched the ever increasing pile appear at their feet, then as if a switch was flipped the pair scrambled like mad, stuffing the magazines into the pouches on their stomachs and chests, the overflow spilling into the pockets of their jeans.
Looking at the others they nodded short curt acknowledgements, and turned to leave.
Stepping forwards, Davies stopped the two men.
'Here take this.' He held out his own pistol to Williams who shook his head as he glanced left and saw Woodwrow do the same with Sheperd. 'No point we'll be fine with the ones we have, more accurate that way.'
Davies nodded his assent.
'Give 'em hell.'
With that Williams grinned, cocked his pistol, and left the roof top. The sixteen strong fire team didn't have to wait long for the show to start as both men burst from the doors below.
****
Williams and Sheperd crashed through the doors like men possessed, their pistols raised flashes of light bursting before them as they fired emptying the clips in seconds. Snapping their hands down their pistols were loaded and brought to bare so quickly that anyone left watching wouldn't even follow the movement.
They sliced through the mass of Infected before them, the bodies forming a pathway of death. Sheperd grinned as he fired, a quotation coming to him as he pushed ever onwards.
'Hey Williams ever heard the saying, “The road to hell is paved by the souls of the Damned.” Williams glanced at his friend and shrugged. 'Yeah don't know where from though, myself I prefer the one from The Divine Comedy' Sheperd nodded. “Abandon all hope all ye who enter?” Williams shook his head. 'Nah mate, Canto three lines fourteen and fifteen.' Sheperd grinned and nodded as the men spoke in unison.
“Here one must leave behind all hesitation; here every cowardice must meet its death.”
Sheperd glanced back at his friend.
'Surprised?'
Williams laughed, the harsh bark surprising his companion.
'A little, which were you?'
'Cambridge, was studying medicine and Literature before I signed up as a medic, what about you.'
Williams barked out a harsh laugh again.
'Oxford, wanted to be a language teacher, but didn't quite make the bar, so I opted for a low level translator in the army, then Paras caught my attention and here I am.'
All through the conversation neither man had stopped their onslaught, spent magazines littered the path of the dead behind them as they pushed ever onwards.
****
Sharp, Davies and Woodwrow watched the two men cut their path of destruction through the enemy, 'Wow', was the only word uttered as they watched the two-man fire-team move through the layers of Infected like a blowtorch through butter.
They stood silent. Ever watchful. Patience although waning, was held in check, as they watched the mass of running and shuffling Infected disappear. The sea of dying bodies moving off after the two men.
Taking their cue, they made their way down the stairs and out into the crossroads below, the chopper pilot still stood, uncaring indifference plain in his features. The Marlboro cigarette hung from his bottom lip like a wind torn branch, a wisp of the tar filled smoke curling up into the crystal blue sky as he silently watched the sixteen remaining trainees sprint
across the open ground towards him. Reaching up he drew on the cigarette one last time before flicking the glowing paper covered stick of tobacco away, the glowing embers drifting off it in a trail of orange sparks as the cigarette spun end-over-end, landing with a soft hiss in a small puddle ten feet away.
Turning he climbed into the cockpit of the helicopter and began to fully power up the machine. The team scrambled up the chain link fence like ants over a cake, flipping over the top of the reinforced wire and landing in a short crouch before sprinting for the doors of their ride to freedom.
Hopping into the co-pilot's seat, Davies donned the headset and dialled in the radio before glancing over at the pilot who ignored him completely.
'Oi twat, you going to give us any sign of actually being at home or what, we need to radio through to Vatican and let them know we still have men in the field.'
The pilots head languidly pivoted in the direction of Davies' voice as Woodwrow and Sharp ushered their men into the helicopter.
In a voice laced with boredom, and a slight Cornish lilt, the pilot replied, 'fine, fine, channel three four three, authorisation code, niner one zero six three Alpha Romeo Delta. Ask for Colinson, he's the section chief, only one higher than Baker. Now if you gentlemen don't mind I am going to take off and get us out of here, my dinner is getting cold.'
As the pilot began to push the helicopter to take-off-speed, a browning nine millimetre appeared beside his head the muzzle pressing painfully into the man's skull just to the right, above his eye socket.
'We, my son, aren't going anywhere until we are told to, do you get me sunshine?'
The pilot nodded mutely as Hooper pulled the pistol away his left hand gently tapping the man's flight suit covered shoulder.
'Good lad, now sit there and be quiet while we wait for the call.'
18
Broadhead Barracks
Colinson sat at his desk, the neatly pre-arranged piles of paperwork sitting in front of him inwardly sighing; he reached up and took the first sheaf of papers from the stack.
'Damned stuff will be the death of me.'
He subconsciously ran a slim, yet masculine, hand through his combed onyx-black hair, as he stared at the title on the docket he held. He pulled out a stamp from his bureau draw and pushed it into the red inked pad, sighing he once more flipped open the folder.
The picture of Jefferson stared up at him, the square-jawed Glaswegian, one of the original members of Broadhead's specialised assault unit, and as much as Colinson hated to admit it one of its first casualties.
The stamp came down and imprinted the crimson ink across the A5 image of Jefferson. Lifting the stamp clear, the rapidly drying letters glared back at him bisecting the man's torso, where the three words now carved their crimson path.
Killed In Action.
Snapping the file closed, Colinson set it aside with a very heavy heart. Picking up the next, he felt the salt sting of tears beginning. Flipping it open he stared into the face of yet another former comrade. Stamping down once more he pulled his hand away and snapped it shut as he set it aside. One after the other he stamped and snapped them closed until all eighteen folders were finished. He moved over to the second set. A small smile grazed his face as he flipped them open picking up the second stamp from his bureau he set it against the ink pad.
'Feels better don't it?' Colinson jumped slightly as he looked up, standing in the door leaning nonchalantly against the frame was Sergeant Kingsley. Shoving himself off the door frame Kingsley strolled into the room.
'These boys are going to be good, can guarantee you that. Not seen a finer lot since Pottergate and my old mob.'
Colinson nodded at Kingsley as he watched the man pull the chair out from the front of the desk and drop into it. Kingsley let out a long, deep breath as he placed his booted feet on the top of the desk; all the while Colinson kept his eyes fixed on the photo in front of him. Inking the stamp he pushed it against the page, the box at bottom blazing with claret coloured letters.
Approved.
Nodding in appreciation Colinson snapped the folder closed and dropped it into the filing cabinet next to the desk.
Pinching the bridge of his nose he leant back in his chair, shifting slightly to relieve the ache in his buttocks he smiled staring at Kingsley.
'So Sergeant, to what do I owe the pleasure?'
'We have a call coming through on the secure line, they're asking for you, its Bravo team and the R.R.T, they apparently have two men still in the field, so they want to know their next move.'
Colinson nodded again. 'I see.' Shifting in his seat Colinson rose to his six foot height and strode across the room, sliding open a panel he pulled out a digital radio receiver.
'Vatican calling Temple, this is Vatican calling Temple, respond Temple'
Davies placed his hand to the transmitter key on the dashboard in front of him.
'Vatican this is Temple, we have men in the field, permission to retrieve and RTB.'
Colinson turned from the radio, looking at Kingsley he searched for an answer, the man simply shrugged.
'Don't look at me mate, its your call, you are Vatican after all.'
Colinson nodded. 'Fine.'
Pressing down on the transmit button he spoke into the microphone. 'Temple this is Vatican, Permission granted, bring our boys home.'
Kingsley grinned lacing his fingers behind his head as he leant backwards. 'Told you they were good, Jefferson's lot didn't have this level of skill or tenacity, it was what did them in out in Africa, that and the fact it was a misdiagnosed level-four they walked into. 'These boys on the other hand, well, you'll see.'
Colinson gave him a slightly sceptical look. Kingsley smiled knowingly as he stood up.
'See ya later Colinson, the rest of us are heading down the pub later, I'll leave a pint for you on the bar.'
Colinson smirked as he nodded. 'See you there.'
With that Kingsley turned tipping a sarcastic salute as he strode out the room. Reaching into the open draw of his filing cabinet Colinson pulled out a dust tarnished manila folder, setting it down on his desk he flipped it open and began to read.
19
United Kingdom, June 28th 2009, Eight P.M.
The television set babbled in the background, the noise filling the room the hushed humming mumble rolling over Grissom as he stared into the tumbler in his hand the amber liquid swirling back and forth.
The television droned on-and-on, images snapping back and forth, from villagers, to huts in flames and back again, as the stoic face of the BBC reporter filled the screen as she continued to relay the night's events as they unfolded.
Grissom's head throbbed with the emerging migraine that was pushing its way forwards. Snatching up the telephone beside him he felt the red electrical tape on the handle as the raised edges plucked at his skin; stabbing his index finger down at the keypad, he pushed six, and listened to the tones bouncing down the line.
'This is Vatican calling, patch me through.'
He grimaced at the throbbing behind his eyes as he listened to the line bounce and buzz for a few seconds as the call was encrypted and passed through to the secure line.
Eventually after what felt like an eternity Grissom heard the confirming click.
'Vatican this is control, go ahead.'
Sighing at the pressure in his skull Grissom spoke.
'Situation has escalated. A team needs to be sent in to contain the spread before anyone else is Infected'
'We know Vatican, authorisation has already been cleared, Templar is cleared for go.
'Local intelligence has confirmed the Americans already have boots on the ground out there as well. Information relayed to us via Colonel Ridgmont at the Special Forces Task Group command, shows this to be a level two, or possibly a level three outbreak at worst.'
Grissom smirked, a sharp snort coming through as he breathed sharply out of his nose.
'Very good, Vatican out.'
With that Grisso
m let the handset drop back into its cradle, lifting another, he punched another speed dial button and waited.
'Patch me through to Specialist Assault Unit Templar.'
The line growled and spat like an angry cat as it was once again coded and scrambled, the line levelled out after several seconds to reveal a deep gravel filled Glaswegian voice.
'Yeah this is Dictator.'
Grissom smiled tightly, the man's flippant disregard for protocol annoyed the hell out of him.
'Dictator the Africa situation needs our attention, we need Templar on the floor inside of eighteen hours, the situation is code three, media blackout is no longer an option and signs are beginning to appear outside of the containment zone, you and S.A.U Templar are cleared for immediate deployment, this must be contained and neutralised is that understood Dictator.'
'Yeah, acknowledge, what's the status of civilians inside the zone.'
Grissom sighed he hated this part of the job, the African Union had already sanctioned the orders as had his own but that didn't make the job any easier.
'Full containment, consider all expendable, no one is to leave the containment zone is that understood?'
'Roger that Vatican, scorched earth it is, Dictator out.'
Grissom set the phone down and walked to the window staring out into the windswept street, he wondered just what awaited the men he had sent into the uncaring grasp of the unknown.
Looking down at the side table his gaze alighted on the pale manila card folder before him; he sighed once more and flipped open the folder and began to read his physicians report.
The more he read the wider his gaze became before slowly he sunk backwards into his chair, the folder falling to floor beside him. A dry smile played across his face as he slowly picked up the X-ray films and stared at the dark mass occupying the area behind his right eye.
'So it wasn't migraines after all.'
