‘Listen to me and listen good, Doctor’ said Ridge through gritted teeth, finally putting aside the map and just about forcing himself not to explode at the scientist who had dared question him, ‘we didn’t come this way from Carlyon bay, so we’re having to second guess which roads are passable. It appears everyone who ever had a car seems to have crashed it somewhere in Cornwall; it’s proving to be a pain in the arse, so we won’t be making our planned pick up. If we travel at night, we’re likely to end up stuck, or in a ditch somewhere. I don’t think running along a dark country lane with that kid in your arms while some hungry corpse is trying to bite your arse off, is quite what Dr Farrell had in mind when he classed the child A1 priority, do you?’
Dr Lambert opened and closed his mouth as he looked back incredulously at the soldier, but Sergeant Ridge merely raised an eyebrow almost daring the doctor to answer him back. Sensing the rising tension in the confined space of the carrier, Pelling looked up from the book she was reading and nudged Andrews, who was dozing next to her with his mouth open.
‘W...what?’ Andrews answered, suddenly startled awake by her elbow jabbing his ribs.
With a silent nod, Pelling indicated toward the tense battle of wills between the Sergeant and Dr Lambert. But it was clear to see this was hardly a fairly matched fight. With the Sergeant only just stopping himself from jumping up out of his seat and kicking ten types of pain out of the smug intellectual, it was not even a case of who would back down first, but rather when the doctor would realise the danger he was putting himself in. Sergeant Ridge was not a man you wanted to piss off, and certainly not one to criticise openly. Doctor Lambert must have finally seen the anger burning in Sergeant Ridge’s eyes, for with as much pride as he could salvage from the situation, he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and returned his attention back to his laptop.
‘Sending you the new route, Grimes,’ said Sergeant Ridge, tapping the details into a console once he had worked out an alternative way back to Carlyon bay.
‘Sir,’ came the brief reply.
‘And Grimes, relay the info to the Jackal and tell them to pass us to take up lead position again.’ Ridge continued, giving Doctor Lambert one last look of disdain.
Andrews exchanged a knowing smirk with Pelling, yawned, and then rubbed the last of the sleep from his face.
‘How’s the little man?’ he asked, trying to engage the quiet young girl sitting opposite him in conversation.
Although he understood his reasoning, Andrews felt bad about the way Sergeant Ridge had left the rest of the girl’s family behind. Yes, in the brief time they had spent with the Donaldson family, they had proven themselves a twisted and incestuous bunch, but to leave them beaten and left for the Dead seemed a little extreme.
‘He’s still sedated,’ replied Doctor Lambert, glancing up from his laptop, surprised any of the soldiers had thought to ask him.
‘Erm, well, actually Doc, I was asking the young lady here,’ said Andrews, looking from the doctor over to Lucy.
Almost as if she was asleep, Lucy slowly lifted her head and looked from the quiet child wrapped in her arms, over to the soldier who had spoken. For a few seconds, their eyes locked, but Andrews could tell even though the young mother, who was little more than a child herself, was looking at him, she somehow wasn’t seeing him. There was a stunned withdrawn quality to her gaze and as her eyes drifted back to her baby; Andrews knew the girl was broken. Her family may have been strange and perverse, but it was clear being ripped from the only way of life she had ever known had traumatised her deeply. Knowing now he wasn’t likely to get an answer, Andrews looked back to Pelling. If he expected some sort of compassion from the woman, he was to be disappointed. He should have really known better. Pelling was a woman with little time for anyone she thought of as weak, so it shouldn’t have surprised him when she simply shrugged her shoulders disinterestedly.
As the morning turned slowly into afternoon, and the afternoon drifted into evening, Sergeant Ridge’s impatience grew increasingly thinner with each new blocked road and subsequent diversion the small convoy was forced to take. For the fourth time, he was scanning the map and tracing the small wriggling lines looking for a new route that would finally take them to Carlyon bay. The plan to find a more direct path back to their pick up point rather than travel back via the Donaldson’s home at Silver Lake Wood, had been seriously flawed, he knew that now. They seemed to have been hampered by one thing or another at every turn. If it wasn’t the rusting hulks of collided vehicles choking the small roads, it was impassable fallen trees or an unexpected swathe of the land deep under flood water. The Dead, even in their vast number, were fast becoming only a secondary concern for Ridge, but despite this, he knew he had clearly underestimated just how difficult crossing the mainland was going to be.
‘Grimes, inform the Jackal to keep an eye out for any suitable location where we can spend the night,’ Sergeant Ridge said, finally folding away the map once he had found another route they could take.
‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ asked Dr Lambert, removing a small blood pressure cuff from Charlie, ‘did I hear you correctly? You’re really planning to stop somewhere for the night. Wouldn’t it be more prudent to carry on? Honestly this is quite unacceptable…’
‘Prudent! If you think blindly charging about the countryside, unaware of a danger until it’s on our arses is prudent, then by all means, you find us the way,’ Ridge replied, throwing the folded map at the Doctor.
Doctor Lambert looked back at Sergeant Ridge, a stunned expression on his face as the folded map hit his leg. He was about to open his mouth to speak when Andrews stopped him.
‘Thin ice, Doc,’ whispered Andrews, swiftly looking back down at the assault rifle he was cleaning, acting as if he hadn’t spoken.
But Dr Lambert had obviously heard Andrews and after a few tense seconds, decided to take heed to the soldier’s warning.
‘Well, no, I’m sure you know you what you’re doing,’ the Doctor replied, slowly bending down to pick up the map to place back on one of the foldaway tables.
Sergeant Ridge simply looked at the man. Even though it was Dr Lambert and the other scientists they all relied on to bring an end to the horrors of the Death-walker virus, when they were out here on the mainland, actually among the cannibalistic corpses that had brought Man to his knees, the tables were turned. Only he and his men stood between the scientist and a pair of snapping jaws with death in their bite.
‘Sir,’ Private Grimes said through Ridge’s earpiece, ‘the Jackal reports a possible secure haven for the night, coming up on the left.’
‘What is it?’ Ridge replied, his cold stare finally drifting from Dr Lambert as he stood to retrieve the map from the table.
‘It’s a farmhouse, Sergeant. They say it has a perimeter wall enclosing a courtyard, and it looks large enough for both us and Jackal,’ Grimes answered, ‘what shall I tell them, Sir?’
Sergeant Ridge flicked the monitor next to him back on, showing the feed from the front camera. He could see the Jackal some thirty meters in front of them in the road. It had parked by a set of wide rusting old gates set into an ancient looking rough brick wall. One of the three soldiers in the Jackal was out of the vehicle on one knee with his assault rifle up, scanning the road ahead for trouble, while a second solider had climbed up onto the roof and was peering into the enclosed courtyard.
‘Sir?’ repeated Private Grimes.
Ridge looked down at his watch, back at the map in his hand, and then finally back to the image on the monitor. It was already six-thirty, and from the clouds he could see on the monitor encroaching from the east, they would be in for a spring storm later that evening. To help him think, he tapped his chin with the corner of the folded map. He knew he had to weigh up the risks of moving on, despite the oncoming storm and then potentially not finding anything half as good as the farmhouse, against opting for this unknown and possibly corpse filled location, when he still had a few hours o
f light left.
‘Ask them, if the courtyard’s clear?’ said Sergeant Ridge, putting the map down, his mind finally made up.
‘Jackal reports, it’s free of civilians, living or dead, Sir.’ Grimes replied after a brief pause.
‘Good, tell them to open the gates and move in,’ said Ridge. ‘I want a full clean sweep of all buildings within the perimeter; we don’t want any nasty surprises. Glass, Pelling, Andrews, get over there to give them support. The quicker it’s checked out and given the all clear, the quicker some of you can get some shut eye.’
‘Sir!’ The chosen soldiers in the carrier said in unison, reaching for their assault rifles and double-checking their ammo clips.
‘And Mallon, you keep an eye on our guests,’ the Sergeant continued, looking from the remaining soldier over to the woman and her daughter, ‘we don’t want them getting any ideas.’
Mallon nodded and angled his rifle so it discretely pointed in the direction of Mary and Lucy Donaldson.
‘Soldier,’ Sergeant Ridge growled, angry the man hadn’t immediately given him the proper respect his rank was due.
‘Sorry, Sir, Yes, Sir!’ Mallon quickly replied, nervously trying to give a salute, but getting his arm caught half way in the strap of his rifle.
Sergeant Ridge looked at Mallon, shaking his head at the young man’s ineptitude.
‘Lucky you’re a crack shot, Shit-for-brains,’ Ridge eventually said under his breath, turning back to watch the manoeuvres on the monitor.
Ten minutes later, Glass, Pelling, and Andrews, were taking up their positions along with two of the soldiers from the Jackal, either side of the weather worn cottage front door. The third member of the Jackal team was giving them covering fire via the pivoting machine gun built onto the Jackal’s roof. They all knew if they encountered real trouble inside, trouble that they couldn’t handle, the machine gun would really only be used to stop any of the animated corpses leaving to attack the carrier. Once they stepped over the threshold and into the dusty dark confines of the farmhouse, they would effectively be on their own.
Using hand signals, Pelling indicated she would go right, Glass was to go left, and with Andrews on point, the two remaining men would then follow up the rear. Once nods of confirmation had each been given, Andrews took a brief step back and then landed a fierce kick to the rotten door, just above the lock. In a shower of rotten wood, the doorframe almost disintegrated under the force of his kick, and Glass and Pelling darted in, dropping to a one knee firing stance. Immediately taking up their positions in the dim hallway either side of the doorway, the two soldiers were ready for anything that came at them, and as Andrews stepped in front of them, his own rifle raised, their search of the house had begun.
Andrews paused by an open doorway to his right, with his back against the faded and peeling wallpaper of the hallway. He knew if anything came charging at him out of the darkness, it would be cut to pieces in a hail of Pelling and Glass’ fire. So with a deep breath to calm his racing heart, he stepped into the dark shadows of the room. With swift movements, he jerked the barrel of his rifle left and right, searching for any that had fallen victim to the Death-walker virus. Behind him, he heard one of the soldiers from the Jackal stepping up, and Andrews held up his fist, a signal for him to stop. One quick glance was hardly ensuring the room was clear of threat, and unless there was another way into the house, any animated corpse in here would be terribly slow by now. In Andrews’s book, their lives were worth offering a few seconds of patience, so he waited. With no sounds of movement coming from within, Andrews slowly stepped into the room. Walking around some tipped over furniture and over to the window, he pulled aside one of the curtains. The windows, covered in years of dirt and grime, allowed little light to filter through to illuminate the room, and what they did hardly dispelled the sense of tragic abandonment that had settled on the once pleasant room.
Whatever had happened here had not ended well and that was clear to see. From the toppled over wooden dining chairs, to the smashed glass fronted dresser, signs of some sort of fight was evident everywhere. But it was the dark stain that arced across one of the walls, splattering a collection of family photographs that really told Andrews what had befallen those who had lived here. Stepping closer to the wall, Andrews briefly looked at the collection of pictures. Only one seemed to have been spared the spray of blood that had splattered across the wall. In it, the smiling faces of a middle aged couple with their arms around a young boy and teenage girl, looked back at him. A snapshot of a happier time, a time when they were blessed with the ignorance of what horrors would befall mankind. Finally looking away from the picture, Andrews stepped over the shattered remains of a picture frame on the floor, fragments of its glass crunching under his boot. Glancing down, he saw the face of a small boy smiling gleefully back at him as he proudly held aloft a fish.
‘Clear,’ he finally said, tearing his eyes away from the image of the happy boy.
Room by room they searched for the physical horror that had clearly left its mark on the farmhouse. In the kitchen, aged bandages, mottled with dark stains, littered a darkly smeared kitchen table, while everywhere smudged handprints of various sizes dotted the walls. It was only when they finally went into the main bedroom that they were met with the reality of what had occurred. There on the bed, with a pillow gently placed over each of their faces, were the withered corpses of the mother and her teenage daughter. Slumped against the wall facing them, as if keeping guard even in death, was the body of what presumably had been the father. They could only guess his true identity though, for the shotgun that had toppled to one side after performing its gruesome task, had left little of the man’s head left to compare with the photo downstairs.
‘Fucking idiots!’ said Pelling, shaking her head as she lifted one of the pillows to look at the self-induced carnage. ‘This one doesn’t even appear to have been bitten, looks like Dad there blew her brains out in some sort of suicide pact, pathetic!’
‘Bit harsh, Pelling,’ said Glass, standing up from where he had been crouching by the man’s body.
‘So sue me,’ she replied, callously dropping the pillow back over the girl’s body.
‘You’re all heart,’ Glass continued, his hand resting on the door handle of what looked like a built in cupboard.
‘Kiss my arse!’ Pelling replied, pushing aside the curtain hanging over a small window.
As Andrews looked away from the bodies of the mother and daughter and back to the father, it was almost as if in slow motion that he saw Glass’ hand twist the doorknob to open the cupboard door. In a flash, he realised they still hadn’t found the young boy.
‘Glass!’ he shouted, raising his assault rifle a fraction of a second too late.
At the sound of his name, Glass turned back to Andrews, confusion written on his face, but by now, his fate was already sealed. In the time it took him to look over at Andrews, a small emaciated figure dressed only in filth covered pyjamas, stepped from the shadows of the cupboard to clamp its teeth on the fleshy part of his hand.
‘Christ!’ Glass shouted in panic, lifting the small boy off the floor as he tried to yank his hand away from the searing pain. ‘Get him off me!’
As the boys teeth finally came together with a snap, he dropped to the carpet and began to chew on his tasty bloody morsel.
‘Fucking Cunt!’ Glass shouted, kicking the boy in head with such force that the skin of his decayed neck simply tore under the pressure, leaving his head hanging at an odd angle.
‘Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!’ Private Glass continued to shout, stamping down again and again on the boy’s head until nothing but a putrid bloody mess remained. The boy lay motionless, never to move again.
When he finally stopped, only the sounds of his panting breath and the drip, drip, of his own blood falling to the carpet could be heard in the room.
Glass could hardly tear his eyes away from the ruined body of the small boy that had effectively ended his life.
> ‘Glass,’ Andrews began, fighting to find the right words, but knowing whatever he said would be worthless to Glass, ‘I’m… I’m so sorry, man…’
‘What?’ Glass replied, finally looking from Andrews to Pelling. ‘It’s okay, the Doc can patch me up, he’s working on a vaccine isn’t he, he can patch me up, I’ll be fine…’
‘Glass…’ Andrews continued, with a sigh.
‘No, Fuck you, Andrews!’ Glass shouted, holding his bleeding hand to his chest. ‘Get the Doc, he’ll tell you, get the fucking Doc! Get the Fucking…’
But his words suddenly ended, as a single shot showered the wall behind him with a bloody splatter of skull fragments and brain matter.
‘What the Fuck!’ Andrews shouted, turning on Pelling.
‘He was dead already,’ she calmly said, lowering her rifle, ‘we both know it, he was just dragging it out.’
‘That wasn’t your call to make, Pelling!’ Andrews spat, his disgust for the woman dripping from his words. ‘He had the right to make his peace, it was all he had left and you took it from him.’
Pelling looked back at Andrews, a blank expression on her face.
‘Fuck!’ Andrews said to himself, knowing his words would never be able to alter what the woman had done.
‘You’re a cold hearted bitch,’ he finally said, shaking his head as he turned to leave. ‘I just hope someone offers you more compassion than you gave Glass when your time comes.’
Pelling watched Andrews storm from the room and disappear down the small staircase. Once he was gone from sight, her gaze fell on the still body of the man she had just killed.
‘I wouldn’t make such a stupid mistake,’ she said.
***
‘Well, what about taking this road then?’ said Steve, pointing to a spot on the map. ‘We can follow it along here, to there, and then, then it’s just this road all the way to Carlyon bay.’
Last Days With The Dead (Lanherne Chronicles Book 3) Page 17
