The face, remarkably unblemished if still very dirty, looked at him with pure disbelief and shock. The eyes were wide, the eyebrows slightly lifted and the mouth open to complete the look. Johnson found his eyes staring straight ahead at the chin of the face, scanning downwards towards his own toes, to see the lifeless eyes in more detail, then back up to where the view made him pause for a few heartbeats, until he finally understood what was wrong. The man’s head appeared to be on backwards to his body, and the oddly twisted folds of skin around his neck under his ears told the story of how he had somehow had his head twisted backwards in the crash.
As the sounds of dying metal faded, Johnson’s eyes closed a fraction more with every laboured outward breath, until the darkness ever so subtly overcame him.
~
Peter, unable to sleep because of the sporadic noises far off in the dark night, sat on the kitchen worktop in silence and waited, straining to hear what he thought had been a helicopter. He had long ago conquered the normal childish fears of the dark, having been forced to sit in pitch-black woodland by his father until he had stopped crying and started listening.
Nothing can creep up on you in the dark, his father had told him, not if you listen properly. Despite the valuable lesson so heartlessly delivered, Peter knew with utter certainty that there were in fact things that could creep up on him in the dark, and they frightened him even more than the memory of his father.
He had crept back upstairs twice to check on Amber, finding her in a different position each time, but always with the threadbare stuffed lamb clutched to her body, and the cat somewhere on or next to her, curled into a tight ball.
Now, just when those far-off sounds faded into nothing, he slipped down from the kitchen side to land silently on the tiled floor in his new socks, which had been liberated from the bedside drawers of the former occupant, and which were evidently too large for his small feet.
As he reached out to shut the small window, since the cat had now decided that it had enjoyed enough fun roaming the countryside, and had come back inside to settle, another sound pricked the very edge of his hearing. Instinctively opening his mouth and turning his head to the side to allow for better hearing, he heard a mechanical noise which his young brain automatically associated with the word falling.
Sure enough, the spinning, almost Doppler-effect sound was answered by a single loud crash. Peter hesitated, then shut the window quietly and climbed the stairs with deliberate placement of his feet to move noiselessly, as had become his first instinct.
Creeping to the draw curtains at the large master bedroom overlooking the road, Peter inched back the edge of the curtain so as not to make any movement that might attract unwelcome attention. He scanned the skyline over the barely discernible rooftops of the few scattered houses on the opposite side of the single road running through the village. Cutting up each section of what he thought was the horizon into small sections, and
looking carefully at them one by one, he could see no evidence of anything he was expecting.
He had to admit to himself that he didn’t really know what he was expecting, but he hoped that he would recognise it when he saw it. With the front aspect giving him nothing, he gently lowered the curtain and walked silently to the rooms at the rear with the largest windows offering what would be stunning panoramic views in sunlight. Still being careful to move the curtains slowly, he was more confident that looking out of the rear was safer, because it looked out directly onto the low-rolling fields instead of the roads and houses on the opposite side. Still he could make out nothing.
Unable to come up with any further options that didn’t involve going outside in the dead of night, he decided that his curiosity would have to wait until daybreak, and he crept back to where Amber slept, to settle down on his own bed beside her.
Chapter 16
“They’re late,” Lloyd offered pointlessly.
“So it would appear…” Palmer responded in an almost distant voice as his head was turned upwards to the night sky. Their reverie was interrupted by Corporal Daniels, who was calling the captain’s name in a voice that bordered on the too loud, given their tenuous situation.
“Here,” Palmer responded, knowing that the man clearly had something important to say, hearing the insistence in his voice.
“Sir,” he began as he leaned in to prevent their voices from carrying too far, which was odd since they were hoping to expect a helicopter to arrive and land there soon, “word from Charlie-One-One. They’ve scouted one of the options now and are happy that we can defend it if we need to.”
“Excellent,” Palmer answered, “which one?”
“It’s actually not on the list, Sir, but they came across a sign for it and decided it was worth a flutter.”
“What is it then?”
“Some kind of historical country estate, Sir,” Daniels told him, summing up all that he knew of this place in his next sentence.
“It’s mostly got a wall around it, but there are weak points they can strengthen with vehicles and obstacles.”
“Sounds like my cup of tea,” Palmer said casually, as he could almost hear the cogs turning in the brain of this radio man who seemed to take everything literally. That trait made him entertaining when drinking, but less so in high-stress combat situations where a metaphor is used casually.
“How far away, Corporal?” Palmer asked before the next question wasted precious time.
“Roughly forty minutes by road as long as we don’t have too many detours, Sir,” Daniels responded.
“Thank you, Corporal. Anything else of note mentioned?”
“No, Sir,” Daniels said.
“Very well. Mister Lloyd, will you kindly speak to Sergeant Maxwell and see to it that we find sufficient transport for everyone?”
Lloyd’s boots answered for him as he set off towards the large building they had occupied, with a muttered, “Sir,” as he went.
“Daniels, stay on the radio and see if you can find someone to refuel our Spartan.”
“Yes, Sir,” Daniels answered, turning to leave before he hesitated, and half turned back.
“Sir?” he enquired.
“I shall be here, Corporal,” he said in a resigned voice, “waiting for the helicopter’s imminent arrival. On that note, kindly send me the first man you see to act as a runner. Thank you, Corporal,” he finished, dismissing the man, who did as he was told, grabbing a pair of troopers who were walking nearby and passing on the captain’s orders.
“Here, Sir,” said Trooper McGill from Sergeant Strauss’ One Troop as he approached the darker silhouette of the officer. “You needed a runner?”
“Yes, both of you to the other aircraft and pass on this message: attempt radio contact with second helicopter, send update to me directly,” he said, affecting a more formal, almost robotic tone for the wording of the order, before adding, “then one of you remain and wait for news whilst the other returns to me for other orders.”
“Yes, Sir,” McGill answered, intending to come back himself, despite the two of them having just been rotated out for a short break to eat and rest.
“Now,” Palmer muttered under his breath, as the unexpected delay was beginning to cause him more than a little anxiety with each minute that ticked past, “where the devil are you?”
~
Johnson’s eyes flickered open, his brain not understanding but his instincts kicking in as a response to the intense heat he felt. The outbreak of a fire somewhere inside the fuselage was threatening to consume the surviving helicopter passengers with smoke and heat before the flames burst out to devour anything left behind.
Groaning and turning in agony to rise unsteadily onto all fours, Johnson took one long, deep breath in and vomited hard onto the hot metal deck under his face. Gasping and gagging for air, he repeated the process twice until he had totally voided his stomach, which he hadn’t realised was still so full. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten, but he knew from the semi-diges
ted smell that it must have been some time ago.
“Any…” he tried to call out, coughing hard to prompt another dry retch and a nauseating belch with it. He cleared his throat and tried again, this time emitting a cracking, rasping, hoarse whisper.
“Anyone alive?” he called out, earning a groan from his left where a hand fluttered from beneath the uniform of a marine with a broken body. He reached out, grabbing the hand and was in the process of trying to haul it towards himself when a much stronger grip clamped on to the shoulder straps of his webbing and began to shunt him backwards in jerky movements. His right hand fumbled numbly as he cried out with an unintelligible moan of fear and anger, and, almost drunkenly, he worked the stiff leather strap away from the handle on the front of his webbing until the bayonet slid out uncertainly into his hand. He began to thrust it weakly upwards at the face and head behind him, striking out blindly in a desperate attempt to save himself from being eaten alive.
“Oi,” came a simple answer rich with annoyance and impatience, “mind sticking that fucking thing somewhere else?”
Johnson, as though alcohol had dulled his wits, couldn’t understand why this zombie had the power of speech or what new manner of hell he was experiencing. He even wondered for a brief moment whether he was alive at all, or conscious, or whether what was happening to him now was simply his imagination providing him with yet another nightmare to endure.
He didn’t respond to the request and continued to jab upwards with grunts of effort, as he stabbed until he felt his body weight drop suddenly, and his wrist was grabbed. The bayonet was prised from his fingers and the voice sounded in his muffled brain once more.
“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” it said in a voice that might have been meant to be soothing, “I’ve got you.”
Johnson didn’t quit, but his mind and body retreated. They let him down, and he was forced to submit to being disarmed and dragged backwards out of the helicopter and onto damp grass, with the last thing he saw from inside being the fluttering hand gaining flat purchase on the deck to push upwards. The smells and other stimuli around him still got through, but it was as though he was conscious in a coma and aware of everything around him, yet unable to break the barrier and communicate.
He was propped with his back against a tree and had a weapon rested in his lap. His numb hands twitched as though he wanted to pick it up, to drop out the magazine and check for brass, then reload and make the weapon ready to fight, but nothing happened. His head lolled to the side, and he was forced to watch in silence as the shape which had dragged him out went back to the helicopter to be silhouetted against the dull light coming from inside it. That shape returned again and again, each time dragging another person out of the wreckage until his last return journey
showed only an armful of equipment. He didn’t make another trip back inside but returned to where he had placed Johnson and four others.
Johnson’s wits slowly returned, and he became aware of new sounds and sensations. He could hear and feel his breath again and he could now smell the acrid smoke and see the first flickers of orange light coming from the fuselage to make the shadows dance. That smoke was laced with the indescribable tinge of plastic, which made his ever-increasingly alert brain register stimuli with knowledge.
Electrical fire, he told himself as he connected the dots, probably a short in a wiring loom.
Whether he was right or not made no difference to him, he was just happy that his brain was beginning to function again and the ringing in his ears was fading. With that torturous white noise dissipating, a crack of a twig in the undergrowth made his head whip to his left, causing sudden pain all down his body, although the instinctive movement of his hands made him feel reassured. He had grabbed up the Sterling sub machine gun and pointed it waveringly in the direction of the unexpected sound, only to wait for nothing to happen.
Couldn’t be a Screecher, he told himself, not even the fast ones would hold off on an attack. Must be an animal. That’s right, just an animal.
He jumped in fright as he failed to detect the approach of someone from in front of him, and he found himself looking into the pale face of the woman he hadn’t recognised from the flight out. Up close he saw that she had long facial features and wide, pale eyes. His assumption that she didn’t seem to be a Brit was confirmed when she spoke to him.
“Do you have any pain in your neck?” she asked in accented English with and undulating quality to the rhythm of her words. He shook his head, deciding that ‘pain’ by his measure was
something that stopped him working.
“Any double vision or spots in front of your eyes?” she asked as she shone a painfully bright light into his face.
“No,” he grumbled, pushed further into consciousness by the light which now left him night-blind, “how many?” he asked, meaning to get the number of survivors, but already having a terribly low figure in his head.
“Six,” she said, devastating him with the news of over two-thirds of the bravest men lost. Johnson grimaced, and began the laborious process of struggling to his feet. The woman helped him, watching him like a hawk as he rested for a long time with one hand on the tree trunk and the other cradling the weapon as he rested it on his knee. Eventually he righted himself, and the woman told him she had to check on the others and left without another word. The SSM’s vision returned slowly, and he used the trick of not looking directly at something in the dark to try and see the shapes with the edge of his eye. It worked to a degree and he could see a taller man helping a shorter one walk. The shorter man tried to wave him away and pushed on with a pronounced limp which made him only place his right foot on the ground for the shortest possible time. He didn’t last long doing this, and he dropped to the ground again, cursing. Johnson staggered towards him, seeing the other man who was helping morph out of the shadows to become the SBS team commander.
“Go see to the others,” Johnson told him, “I’ll deal with this.”
The bearded man left without saying anything else, disappearing into the gloom to leave the SSM looking down at the Royal Marine Sergeant. He couldn’t recall the man’s name but knew him to be a good, reliable man. He was also lucky, evidently, and tough.
“Ankle?” Johnson asked him as he knelt heavily beside him.
“Knee,” the sergeant gasped through gritted teeth, “bent the fucker backwards when I landed. Popped straight back in but it’s
knackered.”
Johnson fumbled with his pouches trying to find anything to strap the man up with, finding only the clotting trauma bandage given to him when they first deployed with weapons. Wrapping it tightly around the knee and hearing the controlled intakes of breath through the muted growls of the injured man he tied off the bandage tightly without twisting the built-in tourniquet too tightly. The man reached into his own pouches and passed another one to the SSM.
“Stick another one ‘round it,” he said breathlessly, “high and low. Keep the joint straight. I’m Bill Hampton, by the way.”
Johnson did as he was asked, nodding as he remembered the man’s name the second he had said it, immobilising the joint to prevent the damage from worsening and the pain from debilitating him. When he was done the Sergeant held up a hand and Johnson looked at it briefly before hauling him to his feet. The curious walk the sergeant stomped off performing would have been hilarious to watch in any other circumstances, as he hopped forward with his left foot, before swinging the straight right leg around in a low swoop to propel him forward again. The man must have been in incredible pain, but his resolve burned through as he stooped awkwardly to retrieve a weapon from the pile of salvaged equipment. Righting himself and inspecting the action of the SA80 rifle, he looked around and chose a defensive
position where he could lean on the low graveyard wall to defend the crash site.
“Enfield,” he called out softly, “with me, lad.”
Johnson was startled again, evidence of just how dulled his senses had become bec
ause of the crash, as a tall man moved past him in an almost ghostly way. The man had a long rifle on his back, strapped diagonally, but he also stopped to retrieve a weapon from the pile and moved to take up the position with his sergeant.
A raised voice off to his left made him turn back, dizzying himself again with the regretfully fast movement of his head. He saw the blonde woman kneeling beside the bearded man over another figure and heard that same accented, undulating voice.
“Can you hear me? Open your eyes for me?” she said loudly.
“It’s no good,” the bearded man said as Johnson approached, “she’s out cold.”
“Who is i…” Johnson started to say before his eyes took in the unconscious woman with the livid cut to her scalp which had sheeted the right side of her face in blood.
“Kimberley!” he blurted out, “Miss Perkins,” he added, even now conscious of the looks he would be receiving in the dark.
“We need to get out of here,” the bearded man said as he rose, “every dead fucker inside of five miles would have heard that come down and every other dead fucker will come this way when that fire takes off for good,” he grumbled as he turned to face the SSM, “Bufford. Sergeant, Boat Service,” he said by way of introduction.
“Johnson. SSM, Yeomanry,” the taller man replied. The two shook hands briefly in the growing light from the flames in the near distance.
“I can carry her,” Bufford said, “can you walk okay? Use a weapon?”
“Yes,” Johnson answered both questions with a single word, “where to?”
“No idea. Pilot bought it on impact and I don’t know the area or the objective.”
“Objective is the armour camp,” Johnson told him, “and I do know the area. Give me a second,” he said as he walked unsteadily away towards the church. Returning a few seconds later he announced, “Saint Goswald’s.”
Toy Soldiers 3: Abandoned Page 12
