Designated (Book 1): Designated Infected

by Ricky Cooper

  The internal door swung out wards as the black clad form of a police officer spilled through; his leather and Kevlar gloved hands wrapped themselves through the Infected man's hair and shirt dragging him backwards off the table and onto the floor. His boot thundered down trapping the man's form between it and the floor as his hand snapped backwards dragging the heavy taser baton from his belt. With a force reserved for only the most violent of riots he brought it down, the baton cleaving the air in two, ending only when it connected with a static filled crunch on the top of the man’s forehead, the three millimetre long bars, pierced the man's skin, discharging the baton's collected energy in seconds.

  Janet stared in fascinated horror as she watched the patient convulse and spasm as the voltage coursed through him, his face contorting as he tried to drag himself free of the boot pinning him down. The wet squeaking of skin on the vinyl tiles set Kevin's teeth on edge as he stepped back, his posterior banging painfully against the work surface bolted to the wall.

  Wincing sharply as the pain lanced up his back, a red hot trail of fire dancing along his vertebrae, its white hot feet kicking at the battered nerves of his spine sending his back into a rumba of convulsive tension. Kevin's hand strayed to his lower back as he watched the officer drag the snarling twisted form away, its feet bouncing against the tiles as he tried to claw his way towards the meal that could have been. Janet pushed a stray lock of hair away behind her ear and straightened her lab coat as she looked at her fellow doctor. The man stood trembling ever so slightly as he checked himself over for any sign of damage.

  'You okay Kevin?'

  He nodded; the shock and fear wearing off quickly as he began to regain his composure.

  'Yeh, I'm fine, we still have the other three patients to deal with I'll call the next one through to the secondary room and get the crew to deal with this, if you want to head up to Birch ward and see about the two there.'

  Janet nodded as she left the room walking quickly along the corridor to the lift, her trainer covered feet squeaking slightly on the pale grey-blue linoleum lining the corridor. Her chest rising and falling in sync with the beating of her heart, she impatiently jabbed at the cold disc of chromed steel watching as the pale watery green circle ensnared the button.

  A soft chiming ring echoed from inside the steel casement of the lift doors as they slowly slide apart, parting like the red sea before Moses. Janet forced her way between the partially opened doors and stabbed at the button for the fourth floor. A dull clunk rose from the depths of the lift shaft as the cables began the arduous task of dragging the steel and plastic box up through the steel girded column.

  A small bar of light pulsed behind the doors snaking through the millimetre wide slit between the slabs of steel encapsulating her, the light danced across her body reflecting back off the mirrored wall of the lift, fracturing across the flat, seamless walls in a myriad of tiny spots as it cast it's jagged misshapen clones of her shadow.

  43

  NATO Training Exercise

  Location Unknown

  The tunnel stank. Foetid water lay in thick green-tinged pools covering the path ahead in a mine field of slime and pitfalls. Gurgling ripples of passing filth, echoed up from the sunken remnants of pipework long forgotten. Drains overflowing with excrement bubbled up from beneath like a geyser. Sending the filth laden spray up into the air, globules of excreta falling from the ceiling above, like fat, over burdened slugs; landing in the muck below with a heavy, wet, splat.

  The thick cloying air stung his eyes, making his lungs burn from the fumes it contained. With a barely suppressed shudder, he reached into the pouch on his hip. Pulling the ANVP-VP F1 gas mask from within he slid the toughened rubberised elastic straps over his head pulling them tight against his scalp. The ridge of cold rubber clung to his head like glue. His helmet sunk back into position with a soft hiss, the lattice work of webbing inside balancing the heavy dome of plastic and Kevlar on his cranium; the thick foam rubber padding grating against his bare uncovered temples.

  Setting the seal on his mask into a more secure position, he raised his rifle and slowly moved off, water rippling about his feet as he pushed off into the gaping maw that yawned before him. He trudged forwards, his breath rasping as he drew in the foetid filtered air. A foul taste welled up in his throat as he sank deeper into the stinking bowels of the city.

  A snap of his hand sent three men spinning off to the left as the tunnels diverged. A sign bolted to the wall sat telling the people brave or stupid enough to enter exactly where they were. Its gloss white face and Gothic lettering once an eloquent marker for any would be sightseer, but now, it was just a rust-pitted reminder of the value of an underpaid and under motivated work force. Waving his hand right, he sent another three men off as he pushed forwards; ducking he settled into a crouch, his uniform seeming to drink in the stagnant waters. His head cocked to the side listening to the sounds of the tunnel.

  A soft lapping echo fluttered across his hearing as he patiently waited. The sound of the velvet touch of a tongue on water drew forth the long repressed memories of childhood as he listened to the echoing return, the soft pattering snaking its way gently through the tunnels.

  Waving his hand he motioned forwards as he gently rose to his feet, the swirling ripple of his passage bouncing off the slime encrusted concrete as it radiated forth. The lapping continued. It swelled, growing, morphing as it drew closer. Coating him in a film of cadent swirling colour. Memories danced in his mind as he neared the source of the noise; images of a puppy, its golden coat glinting in the early morning sun filtering through the windows of his mother's kitchen. The darting of its little pink tongue as he watched it, fascinated by its babe like innocence as it drank the cool waters lain down by his parents.

  Rounding the corner, his torch beam bounced off the wet brick work casting a dazzling, dancing cone of white incandescent light. As it skipped through the tunnel like a echoing reflection of a trains lantern the lapping ceased. A pair of eyes glowed in the dim reaches of the cones beam as he edged forward, a heavy almost feral growl reaching his ears as he carried on his advance. Then as if swallowed by the darkness beyond his lights reach, they were gone, the clicking of clawed toenails skittering over stone the only sign that something was there.

  'Just a dog, move on.'

  The man trailing him furrowed his brow as he stepped slowly through the murky sludge laden water.

  'What is a dog doing down here? It would not survive; the water is to polluted to drink!'

  He stared at the back of the man in front of him as he spoke, his feet feeling their way along as he trudged through the water topped mire. Etienne glanced around him a nagging sense of trepidation stabbing into the back of his mind; driving him slowly and surely insane as he moved deeper and deeper into the maze of tunnels.

  He stared at the walls around him, a harsh niggling itch scraping at the inside of his skull; he knew something was not right. Something in those tunnels was waiting, not only for him, but for his men, and for those working beside them. Reaching up he reset his gas mask once again and pushed forwards, deeper into the maze; deeper into the devil's lair. A malicious grin bloomed across his features as he snapped on his barrel mounted torch, if it was waiting for him, then he wouldn't make it wait any longer, whatever it was, wherever in the labyrinth it resided, he would find it.

  He would find it and then as it stared into the muzzle of his rifle, he would kill it.

  ****

  Dieter glanced out from his perch, the four foot drop ending at the sluggishly moving swirl of detritus below him. He lifted his hand motioning over his shoulder and felt the water shift softly as his second in command slid in beside him.

  'We leave two here, secure the exit, then split into two fire teams and converge back here in ninety minutes to regroup.'

  He watched the silent movement of Mathias' reflective lenses, the M2000 mask distorting his features as he nodded and slid away once more to relay the orders to the rest
of the team. The G36 assault rifle lay heavy against his back as he gently fingered the smooth pommel of his KM2000 combat knife, rising, he silently slid over the edge of the precipice before him and like an eel, slid into the water.

  The others did likewise, barely a ripple rolling across the glass like surface of the water as they lowered themselves to the floor three feet beneath the oil slicked water, boots sinking into the cloying, sludge like, filth beneath them.

  With swift gestures he sent his second in command and four other members of the unit away, their movements fluid as they melted into the shadows.

  'We are to connect up with the French force before rendezvousing with the British team, remember they may not recognise us initially so unless you are fired upon or drawn into physical combat under no circumstances are you to fire upon any one you come into contact with, am I clear?'

  The two sentries nodded and dropped into covering positions hugging the entrance wall.

  ****

  Dieter glanced left and slid his feet slowly through the water, pushing his hunched form across the tunnel's width as he scanned the depths of the darkness, the hollow whine of his night vision goggles buzzing in his ear like a gnat caught in a glass.

  He watched the fluorescent green rod of his laser marker slice through the black, cutting a swathe through the thick impenetrable curtain that hung before them. Even with his goggles he was struggling to see more than seven feet ahead of him.

  'Damned useless pieces of shit.'

  Andreas cast a sidelong glance at his commander as he slipped through the darkness, even though no more than five feet separated the two men, to him, Dieter was little more than a talking ink blot on black canvas.

  'What's up with you old man.'

  Dieter flipped off his younger counterpart, the comment a running joke amongst the team.

  'How long are you going to keep that up, I am only three years older than you Andreas, and one year older than Mathias.'

  His ear bead crackled in his ear as he spoke.

  'Will you two shut the hell up, we can hear you over here.'

  Dieter's brow furrowed at the clipped foreign accent.

  He felt it levering its way into his ear canal as hunched, stalking, wraith like forms began to materialise from the darkness of the tunnel before him.

  Like actors on a stage they moved with precision and grace echoed only by the silence that followed their every movement, the gentle lapping at Dieter's boots his only indication of their passage through the normally still and stagnant waters of the sewers.

  'You boy's are good, the stories about you lot aren't exaggerated; although, your vocal noise discipline needs a bit of work.'

  Their voices sounded muffled through their gas masks, the words coming out clunky and riddled with a buzzing static as they spoke.

  'You must be Baker.'

  A soft chuckle echoed from behind the black tinted lenses of Baker,s SF10 gas mask.

  'And I am guessing you are Dieter, got a last name?'

  The German nodded, his head feeling heavy as his neck strained under the weight of his ballistics helmet and gas mask.

  His German accent lilting the words as they buzzed through the masks vocal diaphragm, 'My last name is Engel; although I do not know why you need to know it.'

  A small smile pulled at the corners of Baker's eyes, making them dance with an unrequited mirth.

  'Because, Dieter; I like to know who I'm working with, the rest of your boys are on the other side ain't they? Guessing from the team deployments you've got...what five here?'

  He did a very quick mental check as he ran through the statistics of all the N.A.T.O country teams.

  'If I'm remembering correctly; you operate on a twelve man fire team, so that probably means you left your two close quarters assault specialists as rear guard at your entry point and have another five man assault team going through the left tunnel branch.'

  He lifted his hand to his neck pressing down on the vocal receiver for his throat mic.

  'King, this is Cherry, just made contact with the Erste Biologische Kampfbrigade, you got anything your end?'

  The line fizzed and crackled as he waited for a reply, he glanced forwards noticing the slightly surprised look emanating from behind Dieter's mask at Baker's flawless pronunciation of the divisions name.

  'My aunt's German.'

  The look increased tenfold as Baker answered his unasked question.

  'Cherry, yeah, I got one hell of a headache.'

  Baker frowned, his brow crinkling behind his mask as he listened to Kingsley's reply.

  'What you on about.'

  He listened to a stifled hiss as Kingsley began to reply.

  'One of the krauts butt-slammed me in the head, guess I made him jump. I think his name was Mathias; although with the ringing in my ears, it might as well be Gertrude.'

  Baker heard Dieter's deep throated chuckle drift lazily down the tunnel as Kingsley groused at being smacked in the head with the butt end of Mathias' rifle.

  'Well that's what you get for blending in with the shadows, keep telling you to smile in dark places.'

  Baker smirked as Kingsley let of a rapid-fire stream of cursives.

  'Yeah, yeah love you to Solomon, now keep it on a swivel and play nice. I got to talk to their C.O. Cherry out.'

  He dropped his hand back to the fore grip of his rifle as he stepped forwards holding out his left hand to Dieter, the Kevlar infused leather hugging the creased and calloused skin of his hand.

  The flexing of his fingers made the battle worn material groan in complaint as it strained against his extending digits. The German reached out and clasped the proffered hand in his own; squeezing it firmly, with a short, sharp, shake.

  Glancing down to the rifle cradled in Dieter's arms Baker chuckled, the sound muffled and distorted as it forced its way free from the confines of his gas mask.

  'Snap.'

  He chuckled again as he watched Dieter's eyes narrow slightly as Baker hefted his own rifle, Dieter dropped his gaze, locking onto the weapon clutched against Bakers chest. Dieter's eyes creased at the corners the smile garnishing his features, danced in his eyes as he nodded.

  'Not bad, although you do have a few modified attachments. We poor lowly soldiers have to make do with the basic model.'

  Baker snorted, a wry smile finding its way to his eyes as he watched Dieter look at his weapon with undisguised envy. 'Yeah mate, had our armourer fit picatinny rails to the fore grip, so it can take an IR laser and halogen torch, also had the barrel threaded to fit a suppressor.'

  Holding out his rifle to Dieter, Baker chuckled as he saw the man standing ridged, unsure of what exactly was transpiring.

  'Take it, consider it a gesture of good faith and friendship.'

  Derek stared at Dieter as he patiently waited for the man to take the proffered weapon; slowly and with a slightly trembling grasp curled his hand around the forward grip and took the rifle from Baker.

  'Besides, I prefer a snub barrel to a long bore in tunnels; easier to move; although that's a nine-inch barrel, in some of these tunnels it gets extremely tight.'

  Despite Derek's words Dieter knew that it was one more step to cementing an extremely beneficial alliance between the two counter biological warfare teams.

  Baker reached behind him and pulled a silenced MP5K PDW variant forwards, the snub silencer and front mounted pistol grip made it versatile and quiet, which was a good commodity to have in such enclosed confines. This was coupled with the folding stock that if collapsed could reduce its dimension to a fraction of the original size.

  'Okay Fritz lets do this.'

  Dieter laughed at the clichéd use of a tawdry Hollywood misnomer as he pushed forwards, his newly acquired weapon pulled tight to his shoulder. Baker edged towards the junction ahead of them, the side mounted torch on his weapon casting a cone of white light illuminating the path ahead.

  A dead, solid wall of blackness bloomed out ahead as Derek slowly began to w
ork his way forwards; with a short wave of his hand he sent three of his team scurrying ahead, their rapid movement casting a dancing marionette show across the arched walls of the tunnel as their hunched forms slowly sank into the black void.

  Dieter looked around him, his night vision goggles pushed back up onto his helmet. Tapping Derek on the shoulder, he cast a hand off in the direction of a side tunnel and with a short nod of acknowledgement from Baker set off down it, his men trailing loosely behind him.

  44

  Etienne crouched low, the rippling tunnel water lapping at his boots as it settled. He stared into the abyss, watching the ever expanding circles radiating out from his passage through the water. He watched as the iridescent beam of his rifles infra-red beam dancing in the air before him.

  A soft lapping drew his attention. Glancing down quickly he watched as the water pushed up against his boots a small swell of rolling waves washing against his laces, pushing through the heavy fabric of his footwear, settling into the absorbent inner materials, dragging his feet down deeper into the murky bowels of the tunnel.

  Splashing assaulted the silence dashing against the walls of the tunnel as its tempo increased, a rolling wall of sound barrelling down on the French contingent. They moved into a tight circle in the centre of the tunnel. Infra-red light danced around the tunnel as they scanned every conceivable angle before them. François glanced about him, his nerves winding ever tighter as he clutched his rifle in a shaky grip. The thrashing intensified. The eight men poised as shifting, twisted; amorphous shades slithered from the curtain of darkness.

  A croaking grating roar issued from the shapes before them, then as one they charged.

  'Infected! Fire at will!'

  The eight men opened up as one, their sub-machine guns chattered as they loosed a withering hail of fire. The UMP9s clutched in their hands thumped into their shoulders as they fired round after round. Brick work splintered, showering the Infected with a thick carpet of shattered stone and dust. Their violent cascading assault through the watery soup filled the air, drowning out the sound of the Frenchmen’s fight for survival.