Designated (Book 1): Designated Infected

by Ricky Cooper

  Bodies fell in droves as the crazed, hunger driven Infected pushed forwards, their filth soaked forms squirmed and thrashed as they climbed over the bodies of the dead. The emaciated corpses formed a carpet of dead flesh as those behind began to force their way over the mound.

  Etienne looked at his feet; the thickening layer of filth slowly creeping further up the lattice work of his boot laces, the heavy scent of copper filling his nostrils as the water around him turned red. A body slid through the muck, its matted filth laden hair coming to rest against the toe of his boot. He shook his head slightly at the emaciated body before him, the darkening signs of degenerative melanomas and skin deformation showing up through the torn and tattered remnants of the Infected's suit. Its limp almost lifeless hand grasped at his ankle as it tried to pull itself forwards. The poor wretch couldn't have been no more than a week from the complete loss of all bodily functions and yet had still managed to claw its way through the body strewn mess towards him.

  Etienne lifted his foot, setting it onto the back of its head, slowly pushing its weakly thrashing form deeper into the toxic soup, small bubbles flickered and popped as the slowly dying wretch struggled to breathe. He held his foot in place pushing it ever deeper into the thick cloying molasses of excrement. Glancing down he watched as its thrashing degenerated into limp child like slaps at the surface of the sludge, then nothing. Limp and lifeless, the corpse hung there suspended on the river of filth like a mosquito caught in amber.

  Etienne flinched slightly as sounds of gunfire erupted behind him. Swivelling on the spot he spun and took aim over the heads of his squad. As he locked his eye down the mil-dot tactical scope attached to the weaver rail of his weapon, his vision went red.

  Blood streamed down Etienne's mask, the cloying viscous fluid seeping through the Nomex balaclava, adhering it to his skin like glue on paper. He frantically wiped the face plate of his gas mask, the blood smearing across the glass as he tried in vain to clear the obstruction from his view.

  A small glimmer of green light spilled through the hazy film of blood as it slid around the lenses of his night vision goggles. Frantically he cast his head around trying, with fear widened eyes, to see the locations of his men. A deep gurgling growl assaulted his ringing ears, the tinnitus hiss drowning out anything but the closest of sounds.

  Etienne's breath hitched in his throat as he turned, the smeared blood still clinging to his mask's eye pieces the haze of red and green casting his world in a sickening mirage of colour. His eyes pushed aside the hazy barrier as he searched for the source of the noise, sweat slowly began to trickle its salt laden way across his brow and neck as he licked the collected moisture off his top lip.

  A shift in the water made him turn, the slowly shuffling footsteps drew his attention as he tried to glean what he could through the haze of rapidly drying blood. The water rose higher against his boots as the source of the noise drew closer, an amorphous shape seeming to coalesce through the curtain of filth adorning his mask.

  Drawing his combat dagger he crouched low as the shade drew ever closer, with a guttural growl he screamed as hard as he could through the masks speech diaphragm, his words a harsh slightly muffled buzzing curse.

  'Venir sur vous chatte!'

  He spat the words with vehemence as he dove forwards, his knife arcing through the air, the matte blade glowing a dull green as it passed buy his one unobstructed field of view, the incandescent greens of goggles making his eyes ache as he drove the knife forwards.

  Etienne felt a firm yet slightly coarse grip ensnare his wrist and twist the blade away; his hand opened as the over stressed ligaments of his wrist and hand gave up fighting the forces being thrust upon them. Etienne's only viable means of defence fell from his open hand to land with a plop in the murky sludge beneath his feet. The Frenchman closed his eyes waiting for the inevitable, he braced himself for the feel of teeth tearing into his pale skin after their hands breached the heavy fibres of his clothing.

  He waited as the clasping hand pushed him into the wall. He waited as his arm was twisted up behind him with enough force to make him mutter a stifled cry of pain as his shoulder was all but pulled from its socket.

  He waited and yet nothing came, no tearing of cloth; no rending of flesh, nothing; but silence.

  Opening his eyes he stared out from behind the murky russet red stain adorning his mask, a hand sliding in from his left roughly washed away the worst of the smeared blood making him blink as light once more flooded his vision, the night vision goggles having long since been pushed up on the front of his helmet.

  He gazed at the silent monoliths surrounding him, the unreadable blank expressions hidden behind the tinted lenses of respirator masks.

  'You bit?' the words were muffled and chopped making it hard for Etienne to hear them fully. Cocking his head to one side he tapped the side of his head as he shrugged.

  A stifled curse rolled out from behind the mask in front of him as the monolith in black reached out and checked the radio mounted behind Etienne's left shoulder. A muffled click, followed by a burst of white static and the question was repeated once more and the words tumbled into Etienne's ear.

  'I said mate, are you bit?' This time Etienne grinned as he recognised the voice bouncing around his ear canal. The bass tones rolled through the microphone mounted on the inside of his respirator as he struggled to hide the smile in his voice.

  'Only if you brought that damned cocker spaniel with you.'

  45

  Etienne sat in the water, his uniform soaked through. His weapon was lying flat across his knees as the filthy pale brown fluid flowed from the mouth of the pipe, washing over his legs in a foetid disease ridden waterfall.

  Kingsley trudged through the water, his boots casting a rolling circular pattern of never ending ripples as he walked over the two inch thick corrugated floor of the open sewer pipe.

  'You okay?' He lowered himself over the edge, his knees hooking the edge of the pipe as he sat down next to Etienne; the Frenchman mutely watching their feet swing into the foaming deluge that flowed around them.

  'Not really. No.' The twenty-eight year old Lieutenant sighed as he rolled an empty nine millimetre casing between his fingers.

  'I have lost a lot of friends to this place, I don't understand how they could out manoeuvre us in here, we had the whole tunnel covered and yet...' He trailed off leaving the sentence unfinished as Kingsley sat in a patient silence, letting the young Frenchman gather his thoughts.

  Etienne let the casing slip from his fingers, watching the small bevelled cylinder tumble away from him, glinting in the newborn rays of the dawn sun that slowly began its graceful ascent from the eastern horizon.

  'How do you deal with it?'

  Kingsley sat, his face a mask of impassive emotions as he watched the rising sun As the warming rays of the new day kissed his ebony skin, he raised his face; his dark chocolate brown eyes sliding closed as he felt the warmth seep into him. Slowly as he let his head slip back, the sun warming his dread-locked hair, he spoke.

  'You don't, you soak it up; file it away, and push on, you're always going to lose people. It's the nature of the beast we call our profession. People get shot, blown to bits, stabbed, hung or carved up by drugged up foreign nationals of the countries we're forced into fighting.

  'I've seen friends, men I trained with, men who I owed my life too and vice versa, get reduced to a pâté viscous enough to fill a mess tin. 'It never gets easier to deal with. And before you ask, neither does telling the families of the men and women under your command. It is the one reason I turned down every promotion offered me.

  'Why in the twenty years I've been with the British army I have never risen above the rank of Sergeant. I couldn't deal with the pain of telling a mother or father, wife or husband, son or daughter, that their spouse or child or worse still their father or mother is never coming home.

  'What I do is hold their memory close to my heart and soul and remember the good they left
behind. I let that do the grieving for me as I carry on doing the job I was trained for.

  'Remember Etienne, they signed up knowing just as much as you that dying was part of the deal and I don't think they would want you sitting in a stream of shit and piss moping while the infected psychopaths that killed them move on to someone else’s loved one.'

  Rising to his feet, Kingsley patted Etienne lightly on the shoulder. As he walked past he sparred a glance over his shoulder at the flaxen haired soldier who remained immobile in the rolling tide of filth ridden water.

  Heaving a sigh Kingsley hefted his weapon. Cradling the assault rifle in his arms he walked away into the dim light of the tunnel. His footsteps echoed off the corrugated, slime covered tube as he headed to the shaft of light and the ladder that led out of the subterranean nightmare they had found themselves tossed into.

  Northern France

  Etienne walked up the paved path of the Bonnet residence.

  He swallowed, his throat going dry as he raised his white gloved hand, a small bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck as he clutched the pale yellow envelope in his left hand and slowly knocked on the door.

  Stepping back he automatically went into parade stance as he stared at the duck egg blue door. He watched, his eyes wide with trepidation and fear at the looming shadow behind the smoked inset panel of glass. Swallowing once more he became acutely aware of the prickling in the back of his parched throat as he saw the door begin to swing open. The lithe form of Corporal Jean Bonnet's wife stepped away from the opening door.

  Snapping to attention he saluted the unknowing widow, who simply stood, motionless; dish towel clutched in her hands. He stepped forwards and held out the pale yellow envelope.

  Kensington South East London

  Kingsley sat, his feet raised up from the floor by the footrest of his brown leather, reclining two-seater sofa. The scratched and pitted leather felt cool against his skin as he lazily tousled the coat of his cocker spaniel, the four year old dog resting its flop-eared head on his right leg as it sat in the warm afternoon sun streaming through the window.

  Kingsley pushed down with his heels, the foot rest giving a decidedly arduous groan as it slid backwards on the hinged levers folding itself away into the base of the sofa. His dog looked at him balefully before rolling onto her back and exposing her stomach to sun. Chuckling softly Kingsley tickled her belly, her tale wagging as his fingers tickled the soft skin of her stomach.

  Stretching he listened, his shoulders popped loudly as he flexed his long frame. Bending low he picked his sleeveless t-shirt from the floor beside the sofa. Lifting his head above the level of the sofa's arm he whistled catching the dogs attention.

  Smiling, he watched as her ears rose at the sudden noise, her body barrel-rolling as she spun over on to her stomach, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she panted with excitement, the thump of tail on the hollow cushions of the sofa, a steady drumbeat of devoted happiness.

  'Who wants walkies?' His singular sentence sent the straw coloured canine into overdrive; her joy filled barking echoing off the walls of his one bedroom flat as she bounded across the sofa.

  Her tongue lathered his chin and face as she frantically licked his unprepared visage. Hopping backwards from the arm of the sofa, the dog barked again as Kingsley dragged a hand over his smirking face.

  'Come on then ya daft pooch, go find your lead.'

  Kingsley watched as the dog leapt over the back of his sofa and ran off into the small kitchen in search of her lead.

  North East London

  Essex

  Epping Forest

  The sharp frost of late autumn bit at Janet’s uncovered nose and cheeks, her feet were heavy with the calf-high Jomsom boots adorning them.

  She curled like a cat into Derek's side as they made their way through the woodland country park, the smell of the wet frostbitten leaves beneath their feet and the cool crisp air leaving her feeling comforted; she smiled at the thought that despite what was raging throughout the world, life, much like the seasons, carried on.

  She let her gloved hand rest on her widening stomach as she burrowed deeper into Derek’s embrace. His large arm encircling her shoulders as they walked in-sync with each other's movements.

  'Have you thought of any names?'

  After much trepidation, Janet had managed to broach the issue of her pregnancy with Derek a week after his return from, what was supposed to have been a combined forces training mission, the memory still stung Baker. The image of the mangled remains of Etienne's men lying in the foetid stagnant water driven deep into his mind. Janet glanced at Baker, her eyes meeting his as she smiled, her question still hanging in the air between them. He smiled down at the woman who made his world complete and nodded.

  'I have, but I would like to know what your choices are first.'

  Janet chuckled softly, her slightly musical voice washing away the dark memories that had been slowly bubbling to the surface of Derek’s mind.

  'Fine, well I was thinking of Louisa, Lisa, Maria, or Elizabeth if it's a girl. John, Dominic, Kevin, or Francis if it's a boy. Although I'm not to fond of Francis.'

  Derek drew his wife in tighter as he spun her to face him, sliding his hands up to cup her face he leant forwards.

  'Those are fine by me, whatever you decide will be the right choice just as mine was when I asked you to be my wife.'

  Janet smiled as she pushed herself up onto the balls of her feet and kissed him; a small unbidden blush crept up Derek's cheeks as he grinned down at her. Curling her fingers through his they carried on along the forest path, the freshly frozen leaves crackling beneath their feet.

  Broadhead Barracks.

  Anastasia's quarters

  Davies sat, the hard plastic of the chair doing little to ease the aching in his back as he waited for her to finish. The Autumn and winter seasons meant little to either of them, both having given up long ago on the fickle meanings, and enraptured capitalism, that the seasons brought.

  'You finished in there yet?' The boredom crept back into his voice as he called out to her once more. A soft whimsical chuckle drifted from the far end of the room as his words finally made their way to her ears. 'Oh I am sorry, is the master soldier getting bored of a little waiting?' Davies' heavy laughter rumbled from his plastic confines as he watched her leave the small changing area.

  'No I just want to get to the damned bar before the others drink the bloody thing dry like last time. Besides it's a good knees up.' He stopped as soon as he said those last three words knowing that the Freudian slip was going to cost him dearly. She cocked her head to one side, a frown furrowing her brow as she struggled to comprehend his meaning; seeing the puzzled look play across her features Davies smiled. 'Party, I meant party, it'll be a good party.'

  He watched as Anastasia wheeled herself through the room towards him, a wry smile playing across her face as she contemplated toying with him. All that vanished when she watched him stand and she once again saw him bedecked in his full dress uniform.

  Davies' eyes widened as he took in what she was wearing, the form fitting dress clinging to her slim form like a second skin, his gaze danced over her, from the smooth curve of her neck, to her trim waist. Anastasia blushed slightly as she saw his eyes widen at her appearance, 'See something you like?' Davies cocked a grin, as he stood, bowing low and offering his crooked arm, for her to take.

  'I see a lot of things I like and some that I would dearly love to change, but tonight isn't about that, it's about me relishing the looks on my friends' faces when I show up with the best looking woman there. The only thing that makes it any sweeter is the fact that if you get pissed I don't have to worry about you falling flat on your pert backside and having to carry you home.'

  Anastasia veritably cackled with laughter as she allowed herself to be semi-pulled along by Davies arm.

  'Yes I suppose having one of these does have its advantages.'

  ****

  The crackling of the
fire filled the room with it's orange glow and the heat rising forth, enveloping the small room in a blanket of warmth; and yet, it gave him no comfort. He felt no warmth and took no joy in the crackling dance being played out by the conflagration in his fireplace.

  His eyes burned with the incandescent light and fire of hatred as he watched the flames weave and flutter. Nothing could assuage him from the thoughts boiling inside his anger spurned mind, as he sat silently safe inside his rage filled room; safe from the bitter winds blowing just outside his frost glazed window.

  A cruel vindictive smile curled across his liver thin lips as he made his final plans for the vengeance he so eagerly sought. Rising from his chair he walked across the room, passed by his own personal wet bar, the scotch filled crystal decanter glittering like a diamond in the dancing light of the fire, and picked up the brass bound receiver of his 1896 Balmoral rotary dial phone. His thin talon like finger barely filling a third of the rotary faces holes as he twisted the dial.

  Listening he smiled as a solid click echoed along the line, his lips curled into a malicious grin as he spoke.

  'Give me a line to Unit Twelve.'

  Broadhead Christmas Party

  The popping cork made her jump, shooting a quick glance left she watched the bubbling foam cascading over his fingers as it spewed forth from the bottle neck.

  A loud raucous cheer rose from the gathering as the bottle clinked against their proffered glasses. The shimmering, bubbling beverage glistened like amber as everyone raised their glasses in a toast to the end of another year, and the birth of new life.