Plague War: Pandemic

by Alister Hodge

  Erin sprinted forward, kneeling at the side of her friend’s body. Rachael lay on her back, legs splayed. She wore a blue t-shirt but was naked below the waist. Dark blood stained her inner thighs. Eyes stared sightlessly to the stars above a cyanotic face. Erin fumbled at her neck, desperately trying to untie a length of cord still knotted about her friend’s neck. Finally, it came free and she felt for a pulse beneath her chin.

  Nothing. She was dead, the skin already cold.

  Erin rocked back on her heels, tears running warm down both cheeks. Jeremy had moved up the rungs of violence, graduating to murder. She raised shaking hands to her face and cuffed the tears from her eyes. If Rachael was dead, was she the next on his list?

  Gravel crunched near her. Erin flinched away, spinning to the side to see who was approaching. Jeremy emerged from the shadows a few metres away and walked up to Rachael’s body. Erin’s mind screamed for her to run, and yet she found herself unable to leave her friend alone with him, even if all that remained of her was a body.

  Jeremy flicked on a torch of his own, scanning it slowly up Rachael’s corpse. Obscenely, he let the beam rest on the blood-stained skin beneath her waist.

  ‘Looks like one of the camp men have notched up their first murder,’ he said. The tip of his tongue darted out to moisten his lips as he drank in the view before him. ‘Typical I guess, too scared to fight the Infected, but brave enough to kill an unarmed woman.’

  ‘That’s bullshit, and you know it,’ said Erin, her mouth running before her brain could filter the words.

  Jeremy’s eyes narrowed with anger as they rose to meet hers. ‘Is that so? An investigation will find the man responsible any day now. That will prove you wrong.’

  Now that she’d started, Erin couldn’t stop as her fury mounted. ‘All that proves is that you found a scapegoat. Everyone in the camp knows that it’s the guards responsible for the attacks. She told me that you raped her.’ Erin took an instinctive step back from him, readying herself to bolt. ‘It was you who killed her, and I’m going to make sure you get the blame!’

  Jeremy’s hand whipped out, grabbing onto Erin’s throat. He wrenched her forward so that she leant out over her friend’s body, only her toes touching the ground. He brought his face close to hers,

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ he said, voice thick with rage. ‘Unless you want to end up just like her, I’d suggest you keep your mouth shut.’ Jeremy shoved her backwards. Her feet caught, and Erin fell hard on her backside. She gasped for air, her throat aching from the trauma. Jeremy stood over her, his body now only a black outline in the darkness.

  ‘I’ll be watching you. Remember, I have keys to each room in the camp. The slightest hint that you’re up to something that doesn’t make me happy, and you’ll be waking up one night with me tightening that cord about your neck instead. You got it?’

  Erin looked up at him, eyes wide as she nodded. Jeremy turned away and spat into the bushes. ‘Now that we understand each other, you can fuck off. I’ve got a murder to call in.’

  Erin scooted herself backward, got to her feet, then turned and ran for the main section of camp.

  Jeremy chuckled as he watched her bolt. He turned back to the body and pulled out his radio. ‘I’ve found a murder victim. Looks like that slut from the kitchen took the wrong guy home...’

  Chapter Eleven

  Mark tried to straighten his uniform in an effort to improve his appearance, then gave up. If the commanding officers were more interested in how his uniform looked than the content of his report, he was screwed anyway. He took a deep breath, raised his hand and knocked sharply on the wood panelled door before him. Hearing a muted invitation to enter from the other side, Mark turned the handle and stepped through.

  The building and room he stood in was old, one of the first structures built of the Fort in the mid 1800’s. In contrast to the wooden floorboards of the hall, thick green carpet lay underfoot, muting his steps as he entered. Before him sat the commanding officers of the Fort around a large circular dining table. The polished surface held the remnants of a simple meal they’d shared prior to his arrival. The Navy officers were joined by two from the Army. Word of the Army’s arrival had spread through the camp in the late afternoon as the Marines made ready to hand over responsibility for the Fort. Mark pulled up short and saluted.

  ‘At ease,’ ordered one of the Navy officers before turning to his army colleagues. ‘This is Sergeant Mark Collins. Since being seconded to the Marines, he’s been highly involved in the mission to date, and was a key member of the initial landing force. For his involvement in that operation, he was promoted to the rank of Sergeant, and attached to a platoon who trialled one of our proposed battle tactics against the Infected. I thought his experiences during that mission may be of interest to the command group as we confirm our plans to reclaim Queenscliff and the peninsula.’

  The men at the table eyed Mark with renewed interest.

  ‘I hear you were one of my Sappers in Afghanistan,’ said one of the army officers, a general by the insignia sewn onto his uniformed shoulder. The voice caught Mark’s attention, he’d heard it somewhere before - on the initial radio recording while they were on the farm. His eyes flicked to the name on his shirt, General Black, the commander of the entire Australian armed forces. Mark’s mouth was suddenly a little dry.

  ‘Yes sir, I did a few tours and was seconded to the Americans for a while to help construct some of their more remote field bases.’

  ‘Which ones?’ asked Black.

  ‘The last one was in the Korangal Valley before the Americans finally gave up on it,’ Mark said.

  The general’s eyebrow raised. ‘So, you were in the thick of it. I didn’t realise we’d agreed to send any of our men to that hell hole. Korangal had some of the highest fatality rates of the war.’

  ‘Yes sir, forty-two dead amongst the Americans.’

  The general took a drink from a schooner on the table, pausing to wipe froth from his top lip. ‘I’ll be interested to hear your report then, soldier. Take a seat,’ he said, and then turned to one of the aids nearby. ‘And grab the man a beer, he looks bloody parched.’

  Mark accepted a stubbie of Carlton Draught from the aid. Ignoring the glass on the table, he raised the bottle to his lips and took a sip.

  ‘I am particularly keen to hear about the noted changes in Carrier behaviour, but, start from the beginning of the mission. I want your honest opinions on why the mission failed, and what you believe could have been done differently. In your own time,’ said Black as he settled back into his chair, crossing his arms as he waited for Mark to begin.

  Mark took a second sip, this one longer. He swilled the beer about his mouth as he decided where to begin. The mission had been a clusterfuck from the outset. After everything the army should have learnt from previous losses, that the mission had even been approved galled Mark to his core. If they wanted brutal honesty in his account, he’d bloody well give it to them.

  ***

  Mark sat with his men in the shade, back resting against the boundary wall of the Fort. An unnaturally hot spell of heat for a Victorian spring had arrived to banish the winter cold from their bones. Sun beat down from a clear sky, raising the temperature enough to break a sweat and burn the skin.

  Mark felt his heart sink as he observed his new platoon officer. The man was young and full of misplaced confidence. Only one year out of Royal Duntroon military college, he strutted like a cockerel back and forth behind the gate while waiting for the go ahead to leave the Fort. It wasn’t so much his confidence that fired Mark’s misgivings, it was that it was misplaced. By the soldiers’ morose expressions, it was evident that the officer hadn’t prepped his men adequately. All soldiers experienced fear prior to a mission, if they said any different it was pure lies. But there was huge difference between a soldier that knew he was taking on the enemy through a well-conceived plan, and the poor grunt who thought he was being sent out as an expendable pawn i
n a battlefield experiment.

  Mark had felt a crushing weight of responsibility for his soldiers’ safety as they were notified of the planned mission. The platoon had been picked to trial a guerrilla style raid where they would engage the Infected, then retreat to safety before larger numbers could overwhelm them. On the surface it sounded reasonable. As a professionally trained unit, they should be unfazed by a slow-moving enemy that couldn’t shoot back. However, a large part of the plan rested upon an assumption that a technique designed for use upon humans, would work with the undead. Mark knew that there would be no period of shock and confusion amongst the Infected, just immediate retaliation and attack.

  The front gate began to move, sliding to the right on a poorly greased mechanism. Beyond the wall lay an urban street that would take them along the foreshore parkland. From that road, they would branch off to the centre of town where the main crowd of Infected waited. Mark felt his heart speed up in anticipation as he scanned the street for movement. Empty. He let out his breath, and turned to the Lieutenant.

  ‘We right to move out, Sir?’

  The young officer held his rifle tightly, a slightly manic smile gripping his features.

  ‘You’re damned right we are. Do you know what an honour we’ve got Sergeant Collins? We’re leading the first platoon of men into the Australian Plague War,’ said the Lieutenant.

  ‘I don’t recall anything in the briefing about a war, Sir,’ said Mark, trying to keep his voice level. ‘All we have to do is cull some of the Infected, then withdraw to the Fort.’

  ‘You’re not thinking big enough, Collins. This is the start of a war. We’re about to reclaim our whole country from a violent enemy – something that hasn’t been asked of any Australian military force before. So, it may not be called the ‘Plague War’ yet, but so what? It doesn’t change the fact that we’re at the point of the knife sent to carve out those bastards’ hearts.’

  ‘Brains, Sir,’ said Mark.

  ‘Huh?’ the Lieutenant looked at Mark, surprised by his interruption. ‘What the fuck’s brains got to do with it?’

  ‘They’re already dead. We stop them by taking out the brain. Preferably at distance with a bullet would keep me happiest.’ Mark ignored the glare of his officer, staring straight ahead to scan the street for any sign of the enemy. ‘You ok with me giving the men a quick recap before we get moving, Sir?’

  ‘Fine, get it done. One thing though, Collins. Mind your fucking tone in future and don’t take me for a fool.’ The Lieutenant turned away, impatiently drumming his fingers on his rifle.

  Mark inwardly groaned. It had taken him less than a morning to alienate his bloody officer. He’d have to keep his tongue in check during future conversations. No-one ever said you had to like all your colleagues, but professionalism demanded civil interactions to get a job done properly. He waved the platoon in to hear him speak.

  ‘Command has seen fit to trial a hit and run style approach with the Infected to slowly cull their numbers without bringing an entire hoard against the Fort. We move into the town, engage the enemy until half our ammunition is gone, then disengage and make a feint to the foreshore. Remember, Carriers are slow. It doesn’t take much to outrun the bastards, you just have to keep your head. Once we send them in the wrong direction and have lost them off our tail, we return to the Fort. Job done.’ He looked about the men, making eye contact briefly with as many as he could. Seeing their resolve firm, he nodded with satisfaction and stood back. ‘Right, let’s get this mission over with.’

  Mark moved back next to the officer. ‘The men are ready, Sir.’

  The officer gave a curt nod, not bothering to meet Mark’s gaze, then stepped out of the Fort’s gate. The platoon fell in behind him, spreading out in a line across the road as they headed toward town. Behind them, the gate squealed as it slowly rolled shut again. Mark felt his stomach tighten; they were on their own.

  Mark walked in the front line, away from the officer. He’d give the man space and a chance to simmer down for the next few minutes. Mark’s eyes scanned the parkland to the right, finding it empty of movement. A scout sent earlier in the morning had found the swarm had gathered in the town centre, drawn back to the original scene of slaughter in absence of new prey. They’d come roughly 500 metres when a street sign caught his eye.

  ‘That’s our mark, Sir. Hobson Street,’ he said, pointing towards the road that headed west, away from the park and coast. The street would take them to the town centre, one large block away.

  The officer was looking pale, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead. The earlier bravado had evidently receded. Mark felt a certain sympathy for the guy. In reality he was little more than a teenager, given the task of leading thirty men into battle for the first time. When no order was forthcoming, Mark risked a prompt.

  ‘Who do you want left here at the end of the street to ensure we’re not encircled?’ Mark’s main concern was to avoid becoming trapped in the town centre, surrounded by the Infected.

  ‘I’m not leaving anyone behind, Sergeant. We need to inflict maximum damage on these bastards, that means all weapons will be brought to bear,’ said the officer as he wiped sweat off his forehead.

  ‘We at least need observers at each corner, Sir. If we’re being flanked, it’s critical we have that information ASAP,’ said Mark, trying to keep the growing agitation out of his voice.

  The officer turned to regard him, his lip hooked up in a sneer. ‘As you so kindly pointed out before, our adversary is dead. They don’t consider tactics like ‘out-flanking’ their enemy. Our unit will attack and withdraw together. If you’ve got an issue with it, feel free to fuck off to base and await a court martial on my return.’

  Mark could feel his cheeks burning. The young idiot was going to get his men killed. If there weren’t so many lives at risk, he’d have no issue turning on his heel and leaving the officer to his death wish. Taking a deep breath, Mark forced his frustration into a tight ball and pushed it aside.

  ‘No, Sir,’ he muttered through gritted teeth, ‘I’d prefer to stay with the unit.’

  Seeing that he’d won, the young officer smiled in muted triumph. ‘Good,’ he said, and turned into Hobson St. ‘We don’t stop until we meet the enemy, boys! Let’s show those lazy bastards back at camp what a platoon of infantry soldiers can do, eh?’

  The soldiers sullenly followed. One caught Mark’s eye, then raised his rifle to point at the back of the officer’s head, his eyebrow raised in question. Mark was gobsmacked by the blatant enquiry. History was filled of anecdotes of officers killed by their own men once they decided their leadership posed more danger than the enemy, but he’d never come across it personally. Mark curtly shook his head, and the soldier dropped his aim with a somewhat disappointed look on his face.

  The men began unconsciously to contract together as they walked. They passed a narrow service lane on Mark’s left. Three properties in, a back gate shuddered as something tried to break through to the laneway.

  ‘Before you ask, Sergeant Collins, I’m not going to investigate that. The gate’s closed; they won’t come up behind us,’ said the officer.

  Mark was about to argue the point, when he realised that all time to change their plan had evaporated. Less than fifty metres away at the intersection, the Infected lurched into view. The officer broke into a run, launching without thought to close the distance and engage the enemy. Mark grabbed the shoulder of one of his men.

  ‘I need you to stay here. Keep an eye on that alley and make sure they don’t break through the gate,’ he said, and shoved him roughly towards the laneway, already transferring his attention back to the main fight.

  The platoon had followed the officer, running behind him. Mark broke into a sprint to catch up, his fear buried beneath an anxious need to play his part in the fight. He skidded to a halt behind one of his men. The officer stood on a footpath to the right, while his soldiers formed a thin line of green across the town street, standing side on wi
th rifles raised. Less than thirty metres ahead, the Infected continued to fill the intersection, still oblivious to the proximity of the soldiers. The officer held his arm up, waiting for the street to be filled with Carriers before opening fire. Mark chewed his lip in irritation at the delay, just wanting it to begin. The sun beat down from above onto the necks of the soldiers. Mark’s armpits were sodden, the sweat a mixture of fear and heat as the sun turned the moisture into cloying humidity.

  His eyes skittered briefly over the facades of the houses to each side, looking for signs of an imminent attack on their flanks. Finding an absence of movement, Mark shifted his gaze back to the Infected. The condition of the walking corpses was deteriorating over time, however, not as fast as the laws of decomposition should have dictated. The flesh seemed to be almost mummified, shrinking back from the margins of wounds, exposing yellowed teeth as lips dried and contracted above the gum line. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand erect at the sight. Mark forced his feet to stay in place, fighting against the visceral urge to turn and run.

  A light breeze flowed over the top of the Infected towards the soldiers, carrying with it a warm smell of decay. Three Carriers turned away from the main group and faced into their street. The creatures advanced three slow steps before noting the soldiers in their path. The aimless, slow gait disappeared as their attention locked onto fresh prey, faces whipping upward to lock eyes.

  The officer swept his arm down, ‘Fire at will!’

  One Carrier opened its mouth to scream, then abruptly, the top half of its head was blasted away, leaving a bottom jaw hanging lax in mid-air before the body toppled backward. The soldiers picked out targets in the crowd behind, one shot every few seconds mowing a path into the crowd of Infected. Carriers surged towards the soldiers, uncaring of the bullets that splintered bone and flesh, advancing over their own fallen through sheer weight of numbers.

  A glass pane exploded from a house to the right of the soldiers, lashing the closest men with razor sharp fragments. Mark’s eyes were drawn towards the sound, and he saw five Carriers emerge from the living room window and run at the nearest soldiers. He stepped back from the middle of the line, took aim and fired a short burst, knocking the first two Infected from their feet. The last three smashed into the unsuspecting soldiers in line, teeth and fingers ripping into exposed flesh at neck and face. Mark closed the distance between him and the attacking Carriers in a few steps, sending point blank rounds into their skulls. He pushed the closest corpse off a Private whose legs kicked on the pavement, his life-blood squirting in lessening gouts from his throat. On the path, the officer weakly shoved aside the corpse that had attacked him and rose unsteadily to his feet. A ragged hole had been punched through the top of his abdomen by a Carrier’s bony fingers, and a mouthful of flesh ripped away from his cheek exposing bone and teeth in a Joker’s half-smile. Suddenly he bent forward and vomited a gout of blood before collapsing in his own mess.