Toy Soldiers 4: Adversity

by Devon C. Ford

  Never leave an enemy in your rear. Ever.

  Nevin waited, looking forwards until a hollow, metallic scream echoed inside the cramped interior and deafened him with a ringing thrum. He couldn’t understand what had happened, and in his deafness, he tried to speak and heard only a muted croak in his head; as though he could feel the vibration but not hear the sound. He dabbed his fingers at his head, feeling hot liquid on his skin and looking down in disbelief at the bright blood. He reached back to his scalp, feeling sharper chunks alongside the hot gelatinous globules adorning his hair, and he squirmed in his seat to view the gruesome destruction wrought by a single armour-piercing bullet aimed at precisely the right spot.

  It had been Enfield’s second bullet that had managed to penetrate the latticed metal of the viewing port. Michaels leaned towards the aperture, pressing his face right up to the gap just as the bullet pierced the armoured skin and twisted to warp and break apart. As it did, the trajectory of the spinning lump of metal varied to pass through the bridge of his nose and blew his right eye out through the temple. He was dead before he knew that he had even been shot, before he could sight in on the injured man in camouflage combat uniform and finish him off, and his lifeless body slumped behind his driver with half of his face blown away. The bullet embedded itself inside the cramped interior somewhere, missing the driver by mere inches as he had no idea what had happened.

  ~

  Enfield let out his breath, taking his eye away from the scope slightly as his hand moved the well-oiled bolt and his fingertips caught the expended bullet casing as he had with every carefully placed round he had ever fired through the weapon. The turret stopped moving and the Ferret stayed still for a long time. The sniper was weakened by his desperate escape from the gun, wavered and lowered the gun as his legs threatened to give out. He slumped down, the pain across the back of his right shoulder erupting in an agony he had never thought possible, and he slid off the destroyed edge of the balcony to land heavily on the cold ground below. He blinked slowly, each closure of his eyes getting longer than the last, until the darkness and the cold took over.

  ~

  Nevin, when his senses were restored, had to stifle a laugh. He weighed up the pros and cons: It was unfortunate that Johnson and the others with him had escaped, and it was less than ideal that whatever guns and food they had stockpiled were mostly gone with them. There were stacks of shotguns and plenty of ammunition for them, but the obvious lack of anything good combined with the missing people made it clear that they had missed out on something.

  It was good, despite the shock and the gore adorning the back of his head, that Michaels was gone, because it left it wide open for him to take over the Hilltop as his own. It was far easier to return with his body from what he could call a successful raid, abandon Michaels’ despotic vision of hunting escapees down and generally make life feel a little easier for everyone who would be happier to serve him and make his life rosy.

  The vile winter would end eventually, and after that he would enjoy himself. He had even decided to be generous, ordering the shocked foot soldiers he had travelled with to take everything from the big house and help him drag the near-headless body out of his wagon. One of them asked if they should bury Michaels.

  “Would he waste time and effort digging a hole for you?” Nevin asked them in return. No threat or malice in his voice, only the stark honesty of his words which resonated with the others. They took what they wanted from the village, dispatching the few lurching, staggering corpses that remained in the area. A few stragglers had followed the main group but moved more slowly than the others, and they had to be dealt with by the two people left on guard. Nevin stayed in the Ferret, electing not to add a gunner to sit behind him as it would take too long to train someone in the very basics of how the gun operated. He decided to recruit a driver for himself at some point in the near future, but his list of considerations was huge and growing by the minute. He saddled up his small force, looking back at the destruction they had wrought on their unsuspecting enemy with a cruel satisfaction.

  ~

  After they had left, when silence had descended on the once peaceful village, along with the soft blanket of fresh snow, a pile of bricks thrown down from the corner of a partly destroyed house shifted to cascade rubble and the powdery white dust to the dark smears exposed by the movement. Sitting up and looking around with a stunned sense of confusion, Bill Hampton tried to figure out what had happened. The last thing he knew was that he’d been firing a pointless barrage at the armoured vehicle in impotent rage, just as a final ‘fuck you’ to try and spend his life giving the others an extra second to get away. The turret had spat flame in his direction, deafening him as heavy bullet after heavy bullet tore down a section of wall behind. Massive chunks of masonry and brickwork had fallen on him, striking him hard in the back of the skull and burying him under the rubble. Now, awake and only half sensible, he clawed his way out of the pile of bricks and dragged himself along with no idea where he was heading. He made it to his feet uncertainly, staggering like one of the undead, only less aware of the world surrounding him.

  He found a piece of metal in a pile of rubble that didn’t belong, a straight line protruding up at a diagonal angle, and he dropped to his knees to follow the cold pipe into a small snowdrift to trace its origin. It wasn’t a snowdrift, but merely a barely warm body covered in camouflage material, blood, brick dust and fresh snowfall.

  “Get up,” he grumbled thickly through a mouth full of dust and blood, “on your fucking feet, lad.”

  The pile groaned, moving to expose a vicious red line scored across the burnt patch of uniform. Hampton pulled at him, dragging him out and falling backwards off his knees for them both to land nearly face to face. The battered features of marine sniper Enfield came slowly into focus and opened his eyes to regard his sergeant.

  “Sarge?” he croaked, like a child emerging from a nightmare and seeking the comfort of a parent.

  “It’s me, lad,” he said kindly, “it’s me. I’ve got you.”

  Enfield, came around as slowly as Hampton had, and broke out into a crippling shiver, whereas the older man seemed not to feel the cold. He looked at the thing in his hands, the beautifully crafted weapon capable of killing at over a mile away if the person holding it had the requisite skill. Enfield had the skill, but he no longer had the weapon. Somehow, probably during the fall he knew he must have had, the breech of the gun had struck a rock hard and bent out of shape. Even if it could be mended to allow the trapped bolt to run smoothly free, he wouldn’t trust it not to explode with the first bullet he would fire through it. His beloved gun was gone; sacrificed to the fight and having earned its place by that sacrifice. Enfield looked around dumbly, not sure what he needed, but totally sure that he needed something. He felt naked somehow, and incomplete.

  Unaware of his desperate confusion, Hampton’s eye landed on a dark colour among the snow-covered detritus. He stumbled to it, dragged it free of the fallen timber and stone, and returned to his stunned marine. He forced the small rifle into his hands, clasping his fingers around it as though the weapon could revive him; could resuscitate his senses.

  It did. His frozen fingers clasped the dark wood of the stock as he blinked his way back into alertness. As he did, a flutter in his eyelids told Hampton that the pain had come back to him along with the memory of what had happened, of the massive devastation and unimaginable change in such a brutally short time frame. He doubled over, exposing the score mark across his right shoulder blade. Hampton fumbled at his pouches, coming out with a wound dressing which he shoved into the damaged clothing to cover as much of the injury as possible.

  “We need to move, now,” Hampton told him through thick lips in a voice which still didn’t sound like it was his own.

  “The others?” Enfield asked, barely able to keep his eyes open.

  “They got away, lad. They got away.”

  Enfield smiled, thinking of the sweet little girl a
nd the tough, resourceful boy.

  Whatever happens to me, he thought, at least they’ve got a chance.

  Chapter 20

  “Anything?” Johnson asked Bufford as he looked in the smashed remains of the large wing mirror.

  “Nothing,” he replied, “where are we going?”

  “No idea,” Johnson said, “just anywhere but here.” Just then a loud double-thump came from the thin wall behind the cab. The others in the back wanted to stop. Johnson said nothing but drove on until he found an empty lay-by on a stretch of open road. As far as he could see, nothing could jump out on them there.

  He jumped out, weapon up and ready, and rolled up the rear doors as Bufford pressed ahead to point his weapon down the road. Astrid started straight in with the questions, demanding to know where Hampton and Enfield were. Johnson just shook his head slowly, and saw her features darken and set hard.

  It was her armour. She defended her soul from the devastating news by hearing it, then shutting it out of her feelings until such time that she would be able to deal with it properly. That space, that emotional void, was still occupied by the death of half her team in the cursed air insertion so long ago, and more recently when her friend Christian Berg was lost so brutally and senselessly in the helicopter crash. That space was filling with bodies fast, and she worried that it might overflow before she got the time to deal with any of it.

  “Where are we going?” Kimberley asked, leaning forward to place a reassuring hand on his arm. The touch was as much to reassure her as it was him.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted sadly, “I just don’t bloody know.”

  ~

  Nevin drove in at the head of the small convoy, recovered from the ordeal of being sprayed with Michaels’ brain matter and oddly pleased with himself. A sullen crowd gathered to greet their return, but the mood was less than welcoming. Two of the guards had been almost overt in their allegiance to the people there, publicly voicing their disgust at how Michaels had hunted people down like animals. The smoulder of revolt didn’t take flame then, because the news of Michaels’ death sent waves of shock and relief around them.

  The relief was short lived, because Nevin’s words made it obvious that he had chosen himself to step into the vacant shoes. He told them that they all had to move on, to carry on with their lives and ensure their survival. He reminded them that the monsters were still out there; that their safety was not guaranteed.

  Then he made a mistake. He ordered for the blood and viscera to be cleaned out of the Ferret and walked away without waiting for a volunteer, just assuming that it would be done without question. He demanded fresh clothes brought to him and began stripping off as he headed inside the main building. He didn’t hang around or even glance backwards to see if his instructions were being carried out, because he just assumed that he could step in where Michaels had left off.

  He washed in a bowl of lukewarm water, ducking his head under and flinching as a chunk of something small and sharp jabbed painfully into his finger. He raised his head, water dripping down his eyebrows as he looked to find the source of the affliction. He picked the tiny shard of sharp bone out of his flesh, disgust and pain on his angry face despite the tiny proportions of the injury. He finished washing, looking around to see if the fresh clothes he had ordered had been delivered unobtrusively without him noticing. They hadn’t, so he forced himself to put back on the boots and trousers he had worn all day. He wore the inner layers of his top half but couldn’t bring himself to wear anything still matted with the partial remains of the man who had ruled the place he now saw as his own. Shivering against the cold as he wore two layers too few to stave off the low temperatures, he went back outside wearing a foul look and prepared to take his temper out on the first people he found.

  He walked outside and found a gathering of people facing the entrance, milling about almost uncertainly as though they lacked the final catalyst to take action as a group. They had a clear common purpose, but the spark to ignite the flame was missing.

  That spark came when a bedraggled woman gently pushed her way to the front rank and faced him down. She rubbed at her wrists where they had been tied until the revolt had forced her release. She showed no emotion when she heard the news of Michaels’ death, but inside she rejoiced almost cruelly, betraying a side to her personality that she didn’t know she had. She wasn’t ashamed of it. Now she faced the shivering man and felt the weight of the support behind her making her more powerful than he was.

  Nevin knew it in the same moment that she did, and his hand fumbled in the pocket of the trousers for the revolver. The crowd descended on him as one, pinning his arms and body with so many hands that he was utterly powerless to resist. It was the realisation that the threat of violence only held so much sway over others, and when the majority recognised their power, they were an unstoppable force. The gun was wrested from his grip and the barrel turned on him for the cold metal to grind the soft, thin layer of flesh between his eyes. He screwed his eyes shut tightly and tried to squirm away from the pressure, a keening noise escaping his mouth without permission, until a strong voice cut through the hum.

  “No,” she said, “not like that.”

  “Hang the bastard!” a woman shouted in a shrill voice made aggressive by the horrors of oppression.

  “Shoot him,” yelled a man, most likely unwilling or unable to do so himself, but happy to allow another to bear the burden.

  “We can’t let him go,” another voice shouted, being met with grumbles of affirmation and support.

  Pauline thought about it, thought about how best to satisfy the people who had suffered under the control and cruelty of him and people like him. The others had been given a choice; stay and become one of them or leave and consider themselves apart forever. None of them was the ringleader type, but this man, Nevin, he was toxic.

  “Oh,” she said nastily, letting all of the anger and frustration pour out of her after months of imprisonment, “we can let him go.”

  Nevin was frogmarched by so many pairs of hands around the building to face the sea from the high cliffs. He had begun to hope that they would banish him, would eject him from the safety of the Hilltop with only the clothes on his back. He willed them to do that, begged and pleaded in between threatening and abusing the people pinning his arms. One man pushed through to spit in his face, and looked horrified when Nevin spat back, as each man held the same contempt and hatred for the other. The man despised Nevin for what he had done to people, how he had bullied and exploited the weak. Nevin hated him because he hated everyone.

  He was powerless to resist the will of the people, but babbled pleas and threats constantly in the desperate hope that something, anything he said would save his life. It didn’t, and without any more words or opportunity to talk his way out of his fate, they pitched him over the side of the cliff towards the sea far below and listened as his screams faded into the sounds of the crashing waves far below.

  ~

  Captain Palmer called a meeting. Because everyone was present, it had to be held outside in the cold in order that everyone could hear him. He told them about the safe site in Scotland, about how Britain was effectively cut off and that no help would be coming in the near future. He told them that it was their duty to get there, by any means possible, and to support the remnants of the rightful government.

  “It might be your duty,” called a voice from the crowd. Palmer could not find the face of the disembodied words, but he recognised the voice and knew it belonged to the man who had always been vocal about their plight. That vocalisation had usually been negative, and his younger brother had told him of how the man had lied about his wife being pregnant in order to try and get on board one of the rescue helicopter flights back on the island. He had struck the young officer and had looked likely to do so again until another of the civilians had intervened, but since building up the life they lived at the house, he had gathered some support among the non-military people, and even his w
ife had returned to his side.

  “…but it’s not ours,” he finished amidst a chorus of agreeing murmurs.

  “Very true,” Palmer said, “so if anyone wishes to stay here, then we will discuss the supplies and resources to be left behind.”

  Bizarrely, some of the civilians untethered to the squadron by family wanted to come with them, just as the surprise of a few army families wanting to stay rocked Palmer’s confidence. He saw that not as a desertion, but as a failure on his part that he did not inspire those men sufficiently to follow him. The disillusion was tempered by the reassurances of Lloyd and Downes, as well as those of his younger brother, who had become more noticeable now that the possibility of a more comfortable life peeked over the horizon. Those who wanted to stay did so out of hope that loved ones and friends had survived, and that they could be there to offer safety and assistance to those who would hopefully emerge in the spring, like daffodils.

  What took two days to decide, amidst arguments and tears, was that almost fifty of them wanted to stay, wanted to take over the big house and work the farm and man the defences to keep them safe from the suspected return of the Screechers when the warm weather came back. Among those fifty were half a dozen of the squadron men, but none of the RAF crews or Royal Marines had any inclination to remain behind. The core of the squadron had remained intact, but Palmer wondered how many of those would have fallen away if they hadn’t rescued their families or if those they had rescued had wanted to stay. The pull of family was a force stronger than gravity. The marines, just as the remaining helicopter crew and the SAS team, all still considered themselves deployed, more than surviving a nuclear apocalypse where the undead walked the countryside in hordes, and the only support they could count on was their own. Their units were still largely intact, and that helped maintain the cohesion between the men.