by Luke Duffy
Bull ignored him and continued to apply direct pressure while Bobby ripped open a field dressing. Marty’s wrist needed immediate attention and he had already lost an incredible amount of blood through the torn artery. He also had a large bite wound in the soft tissue between his shoulder and neck and his clothing was stained dark with glistening wet blood. His face was pale and coated in a fine layer of sweat and his lips were tinged pale blue through loss of blood. He was fading fast and as Bobby pressed the dressing down onto Marty’s bleeding forearm, Bull reached for his tourniquet in a last ditch attempt to stop the loss of Marty’s precious life fluid.
“For fuck sake, Bull, leave it,” Marty growled again weakly.
The huge man paused and looked back at Marty’s sunken eyes and withered cheeks. Bull’s own eyes were glazed with a film of tears and his vision blurred as he gazed down at his dying friend.
“There’s nothing you can do, mate.”
“We can stop the bleeding,” Bull reasoned in a breaking voice and began gripping the wound in his friend’s arm even tighter. “You’ll be okay, Marty. We’ll get you sorted soon. We’re nearly at the river.”
Marty shook his head. He was barely able to open his eyes and already he had lost the vision in his peripherals. His legs were numb and he could feel a great coldness creeping its way up along his body.
“You know you can’t,” he said with a faltering voice and a slight smile. “You know you can’t help me, you dick head.”
Bull was oblivious to the cracks of rifle fire around him and the anxious shouts of the defenders as they called out targets to one another and recommended that they should move. He could feel an invisible hand beginning to squeeze at his throat. It was strong enough almost to stop him from breathing and an immense pressure seemed to be welling up from inside his chest and pushing against his sternum.
“It’s okay, mate,” Marty croaked as a large pool of dark red blood began spreading across the paving stones beneath him. “It’s alright.”
Bull released his grasp on Marty’s arm and gently placed his hand around the side of his friends head, cupping the crook of his neck. He pulled him close and buried his face into Marty’s matted hair. The tears were beginning to flood and his body jerked slightly as he fought to hold back the sobs. He kissed Marty’s head and lay him back down. With his other hand he reached for the pistol on his hip, nodding slightly to himself as he painfully accepted that he was about to lose his best friend.
Marty stared back up at him and gave a slight shake of his head.
“Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “Save your rounds, mate. You’ll need them.”
Bull watched as his friend weakly lifted his arm and moved his hand towards his own mouth and parted his lips. He knew what Marty was about to do and he shook his head and raised his own hand to interfere. Marty feebly knocked his hand away, staring back into his eyes with the last of his determination.
“It’s okay, Bull. It’s okay.”
Bull nodded and looked on as Marty removed the cap from one of his rear molars. With a final withering smile, Marty bit down hard. His body twitched suddenly and arched backwards for a moment, as though a jolt of electricity had passed through him. His head shot back and his right eye bulged out from its socket then instantly turned black from the massive haemorrhaging of his brain. The side of his face turned a deep purple as the capillaries and veins around the area of the tiny explosive burst and within seconds, blood began to seep out from his nose and ears.
Bull paused for a moment, staring down at Marty’s lifeless face and stroking his hand across his pallid left cheek. He nodded with heart-breaking acceptance as he leaned forward and tucked his arms beneath Marty’s knees and around his shoulders.
He paused for a moment and took in a deep breath.
“He’s coming with us,” he growled as he raised himself to his feet, holding Marty’s limp body in his arms and turning to walk away without paying any attention to the men and infected around him. “We’re not leaving him here, so he’s coming with us.”
Stan and Bobby stepped back, leaving the firing to the others as they watched Bull carrying the sagging dead body of yet another of their team. Stan showed no outward emotion but it was plain to see on Bobby’s face. His features were awash with a collage of rage, sorrow, and confusion. It had all happened so fast at the bunker and he felt guilty that he had not been able to help Marty. His hatred for the infected and grief at not being able to save his friend were surging through his body as he dropped the blood soaked field dressing to the ground and took control of his rifle.
Bull broke into a run, continuing towards the river with tears streaming down his face. The others followed as the crowd at the end of the street swelled from the hundreds of infected that tumbled out from the buildings all around them. The streets to the left and right were swarming with them and the team were in danger of being cut off.
By now, they could see the gates leading into one of the dockyards. They had no idea whether or not there would be anything of use to them at the water’s edge but it was a risk they had to take. They had nowhere else to go. Their only other alternative was to barricade themselves into one of the many buildings but it would only be a matter of time before the dead managed to break in.
In the distance, the heavy thuds of explosions continued to rock the city as the remains of Stan’s men, along with the veteran and two militia soldiers, Peter and Michael, raced for the opening in the fence line that led into the dockside. They slammed the gate as they passed through and Bobby and the veteran did what they could to secure it. The bolt locks they slid into place would not hold for long and already the iron rails rattled loudly as hundreds of corpses threw themselves against the flimsy barrier. Bobby and the veteran withdrew, taking nervous glances over their shoulders as the gate began to bow and buckle beneath the mass of bodies pressing against it.
Stan turned a corner and stopped dead in his tracks, raising his MP-5 simultaneously and firing a volley of shots into a cluster of mangled figures that turned to face them. Two of them dropped, their skulls shattering beneath the hail of Stan’s rounds.
“Fuck you,” Bull hollered with rage and took off at a sprint, barging his way through the corpses that stood in his path. “Fuck you.”
Many of them were felled by the big man and trampled beneath his feet as he lumbered forward towards the river, determined to carry the body of his friend to safety and away from the dead city. The rest of the men followed, firing wildly then swinging their rifles like batons when their magazines run dry.
Bobby pulled his pistol and shot a round through the face of a woman as she pounced towards him. Her head snapped backwards but her body continued forward and slammed into him, knocking him to the side and forcing him to vault over a barrel lying on its side that he was about to crash into. Behind him, a scream rang out as one of the militia was tackled to the ground. The man was too far away for him to help and there were too many infected between him and the civilian soldier. He fired a couple of badly aimed shots in the general direction of the militiaman and continued after Stan and the others.
Taff and Danny were working in tandem, acting as the two halves to one body. While Taff supported the wounded man, he used his right arm to fend off the dead that were on his side. Danny took care of the left and together, they forged forwards after Stan and Bull.
“What do we do when we get to the fucking water?” Danny grunted as he continued to hobble through the dockyard.
“Fuck knows,” Taff shouted back at him as the barrel of his M-4 smashed against the head of a body that was little more than a jumble of clicking bones covered with leathery skin. “We’ll burn that bridge when we’ve crossed it.”
Stan and the veteran watched as Bull turned to his left and disappeared from sight along the narrow jetty leading to the water’s edge. A moment later and they too made it to the corner and bolted along the wooden planks without slowing their pace. At the far end, Stan had hoped to see the b
ig grey monster that would be their ride out of there. Instead, they saw nothing. There was no sign of Captain Werner or his boat. He looked in both directions along the river, desperately scanning the water for the U-boat.
With nowhere left to run, they stopped on the rickety dockside and turned to face their enemy as the remains of their group arrived. They formed a defensive line along the end of the jetty and prepared their weapons, slamming in fresh magazines and checking on what they had left. They were all beginning to run low on ammunition.
“I’m down to four mags, Stan,” Bobby called out as he raised his weapon into the aim. “When I get to my last, I’m going for a swim.”
Stan swivelled and looked into the murky water of the Thames. He nodded back to Bobby in agreement. They would probably drown, being sucked under by the currents, but it was worth a try. He ripped away his assault vest and dropped any equipment he did not need. The rest of the men followed suit and stuffed their pistols and magazines into their pockets, dumping any unnecessary weight.
Bull gently placed Marty on the ground at his feet and stood ready to protect his friend’s body to the very end. He checked the state of his weapon and ensured that he had a full belt of two-hundred 5.56mm rounds clipped into the feed-tray. Marty’s Minimi had been lost in the bunker attack and Bull’s gun was down to his last belt but he was determined to make every round count. He checked his pistol and vowed that he would save the last shot for himself.
“Where’s the others?” The veteran called out when he saw that the two brothers from the militia were missing.
“They’re gone,” Bobby replied with a shake of his head.
It did not matter, they were all about to die anyway. They could jump in the river or take their own lives but either way, they had gone as far as they could go.
As the first of the infected reached the far end of the pier and turned towards the six men standing at the water’s edge, Stan and the others readied themselves to hold their ground, using the bottleneck of the quayside to their advantage.
Bull opened up with controlled bursts of three to four round groups that smashed into the lead infected. The impacts sent scraps of clothing, bone, and flesh flying through the air and shattered bodies tumbling in all directions. The rest of the men joined in, making each shot count.
The dockside erupted into a clamour of ear-splitting snaps and cracks as the guns fired relentlessly into the advancing mass. A large pile of bodies was quickly forming over the wooden planks of the pier but there were hundreds more behind them, taking their place as they surged against the wall of devastating fire.
“Magazine,” someone cried out from the right.
“Stoppage,” another hollered.
“Behind us,” Danny suddenly shouted from the left as he slammed the last of his magazines into his M-4.
Stan pivoted, expecting to see a threat approaching them from behind.
Just two-hundred metres away, he saw the glowing white bow-wave of the Type-XXI as it cut through the water at speed. Now, he could hear the thrum of its diesels as they hammered away at full revolutions. It was headed right for them and showing no sign of slowing. A figure in the conning tower was waving his hands frantically and shouting something that Stan could not make out. The boat was approaching fast and within seconds, as the survivors on the quayside continued to pour all their fire into the advancing crowd, the gap was down to less than one-hundred metres.
Looking down at the water’s edge, Danny suddenly realised what the figure on the bridge was trying to tell them. His eyes bulged with the realisation and he turned to the others and began to push some of them forwards and to the side.
“Move out of the fucking way,” he yelled.
Everyone turned and saw the bow of the boat, now almost on top of them. They jumped to the left and right, narrowly avoiding being ploughed under by the point of the submarine’s forward deck as it crashed into the jetty with a shattering crunch. The impact sent up a huge wave of Thames water and smashed through planks of wood and thick support beams like they were matchwood, flinging them into the air as the boat came to a shuddering stop amongst the wreckage of the flimsy pier.
Already the engines were racing again as the Chief Engineer slammed the diesels into reverse gear, wasting no time in pulling the vessel away from the dock wall.
“Stan,” Werner screamed down from the conning tower with urgency as his sailors began firing into the mass of dead from their positions on the aft deck. “Get your men on board. And be quick about it, will you?”
22
Far to the south, the horizon blazed, casting up an orange glow into the sky above London. The low concussions of explosives and the faint crackle of heavy machinegun fire could be heard even from a distance of over forty kilometres. They could see the faint silhouettes of helicopters buzzing about over the streets and the streak of fast moving aircraft as they raced across the skies above the doomed city.
“I knew it wouldn’t work,” Al said as he placed down the handset of their radio. He turned and looked back over the landscape and then up at the sky. “We should think about finding somewhere to go static for the night, Tommy. It’ll be dark soon.”
Tommy was sitting beside him, taking small nibbling bites from a digestive biscuit as he stared down at his feet in deep thought. Lean and gangly, he always appeared to be on the verge of tripping over his own legs that seemed to have a mind of their own. His limbs were out of proportion to the rest of his body and at times, he looked almost alien. However, despite his appearances, with his crooked nose and snarling features, he was an extremely professional and experienced soldier.
“What are they saying on the radio, has it all gone to rat-shit then?” He asked as he turned his attention back to Al.
“Looks that way,” the big man nodded, solemnly. “From what I’m hearing, they’re calling for all their units to withdraw. The troops in London seem to be cut off and everyone else is bugging out, back to the Isle of Wight.”
Al and Tommy had been friends for many years. Their unit, having been decimated during the outbreak, had been instructed to occupy a Forward Operating Base, FOB, situated within the Midlands. Since the mainland was evacuated, they had sat patiently waiting for orders and information on when the great counter strike would begin and what their role would be as part of it. Three days earlier and they had finally received the call that they had all been waiting for and were placed on standby.
Rather than sitting around and being drip-fed information from the staff of MJOC, the people in the FOB had decided to carry out their own information gathering operation. Prior to the start of the invasion the two men had volunteered to venture out from behind the walls of their base and move south in the hope of gaining some first-hand intelligence on what was happening once the attack began. They had watched and listened with optimism during the opening phases but their positivity slowly changed to disappointment as the tide steadily turned and the battle was lost.
“Jesus, those poor bastards don’t have a chance. By nightfall, anyone remaining in the city will be left there and I doubt there’ll be anyone left by the time daylight arrives.”
The radio transmissions were a jumble of cries for help with panic filled and screaming voices, pleading for support and rescue. Neither Al nor Tommy needed actually to see what was happening on the ground. They could fill in the blanks for themselves.
“We’d better let the people back at the FOB know about what’s going on. I’m pretty sure they won’t have been informed yet of what’s happened,” Tommy said as he slung the remains of the biscuit down the hill.
“Let’s sleep on it, mate. I don’t have the stomach to begin a lengthy conversation over the radio just yet. Let’s just find somewhere to sleep for the night, then we’ll begin heading back in the morning. In the meantime, I’ll have a think about how to break the news.”
Al was huge. He was well over two metres tall and almost just as wide. He had reached full height by the time he was f
ifteen years old but his body had continued to grow outwards. Along with hard training and an active lifestyle, he had slowly grown from a scrawny teenager and into a burly and powerful man. Despite his size, he was very capable of running for long distances with ease. Although he was far from being a natural sprinter, he was still able to keep pace with most of the people around him and outdistance the vast majority.
Al and Tommy had first met when they attended a promotions course while serving in different companies but in the same battalion. From there, they bonded a close friendship that had lasted for over ten years and would continue until the day they died.
“We’ll head for that farmhouse we saw a few miles back,” Al suggested as he climbed to his feet and slung the radio over his shoulder.
“Sounds good to me.”
They were both about to move off when Tommy saw something moving at the foot of the hill, close to the edge of the treeline and on the opposite side of the road. It could have been one of the infected with its lunging gait and dishevelled appearance but Tommy noticed that it appeared to be more alert than any of the dead they were used to seeing. He clicked his fingers to draw Al’s attention and then pointed to the body as it stumbled out into the road and began to climb the hill clumsily.
Immediately they both knew that it was a living person. The figure struggled to negotiate the slippery grass and the undulating ground but refused to give up. Whoever it was, they were hurt and exhausted but determined to keep moving. The figure’s face turned upwards towards Al and Tommy and they saw that it was a woman. She saw them too and for a fleeting moment, their eyes remained locked. Behind her, the woods reverberated with the sounds of heavy footfalls, snapping branches and the poignant wail of the dead.
Tommy began to walk down the slope. Al, after a moment’s hesitation, joined him and they both headed towards the limping woman. When they were within ten metres of her they stopped and eyed her with suspicion. She stared back at them, her face showing a catalogue of pain and fatigue. The two men slowly advanced towards her, their weapons pointed at her and ready to fire if she showed any sign of aggression.
