by David Moody
‘No, sir, they’re worse. Much worse.’
‘How so?’
‘This new foe we’re facing is like no other. They are already dead. This makes them both fearless and largely indestructible. And when people are killed by this unearthly new enemy, regardless of which side they were originally batting for, they all turn.’
The colonel thought for a moment and poured himself another drink. ‘I’d already heard as much. You’ve been on the ground though, Wilkins. I want your fullest and frankest assessment of the situation.’
‘It’s grim, sir. Getting worse by the day. By the hour, actually.’
‘And how do you see things panning out?’
‘I’m no strategist and I—’
‘What’s your gut feeling, Lieutenant?’
‘Follow the logic of this scenario through, Colonel.’
‘Logic?’
‘Quite. But consider the facts. The dead have extraordinary resilience and aggression and the curse which has blighted them is contagious. There will inevitably come a point when they outnumber the living.’
‘That’s what I feared.’
‘I foresee there being a tipping point, perhaps not too far away, when the living become the minority. Then, eventually, we’ll disappear altogether.’
The colonel knocked back his second drink. ‘Damn those bloody Nazis,’ he yelled, and he thumped his fist down onto the desk, filling the small office with noise.
‘It’s not completely hopeless, sir.’
‘It certainly sounds that way.’
‘You’ve heard about Polonezköy? The camp where the germ at the source of this outbreak was developed.’
‘I’ve read the report.’
‘Then you’ll also know one of the scientists responsible is imprisoned there.’
‘Yes, and since we received your intelligence we’ve been able to confirm he hasn’t left the camp. In fact, no one’s entered or left the camp in some time, by all accounts.’
‘It strikes me that scientist is our best hope. Perhaps our only hope.’
‘I completely agree, Wilkins. You leave at midnight.’
‘Sir?’
‘You heard me. Come on, man, did you really think I could send anyone else? You’ve experience of dealing with these ghouls first-hand.’
‘But sir, I do think there are other men who are better equipped to—’
‘Dammit, Wilkins, you’re going and that’s all there is to it. You wouldn’t have been my first choice, granted, but as of this morning you’re just about my only choice. There may have been better men, braver men, but...’
‘Sir?’
‘But they’re dead. Some of them dead twice over. Only two of you made it back, and you’re the only one still alive. I need you to accompany the team heading for Polonezköy. The fate of our country is at stake here.’
Wilkins stood up slowly, his body weighed down with fatigue and resignation. He was about to leave but he stopped, concerned by something the colonel had said. ‘Two of us made it back?’
‘What?’
‘You said two of us made it back. Who was the other?’
‘Raymond Mills. Good chap.’
‘I know him. Where is he?’
The colonel paused, and Wilkins began to feel increasingly uneasy. He wasn’t being told the whole story here, that much was clear. Colonel Adams picked up on his uncertainty. ‘Come with me.’
Another staircase leading even farther down, deep below Pocklington Hall. Another guarded door in a place where there shouldn’t have been a door at all. The guard saluted and stood aside.
On the other side of the door, a well-lit room. Small and square, no more than four yards wide and long. At the far end, a hastily-built ante-room. No door. A metal grille two bricks wide by three high. ‘Get me some light in there,’ the colonel ordered. A switch was flicked, and Wilkins peered inside.
Raymond Mills was dead. His uniform torn to shreds, his exposed skin equally damaged. His face was a hideous shadow of the man Wilkins remembered: a cruel caricature of a once brave and proud soldier. Mills’ eyes were at once completely devoid of emotion yet full of anger and hate. When he saw Wilkins and the colonel on the other side of the grille, he threw himself at them and began to fight viciously and pointlessly, trying to get at them.
‘Good God,’ Wilkins said.
‘Poor bastard. He was caught by one of those things just as he was getting on the plane, but by all accounts no one noticed until it was too late.’
Wilkins’ mind was racing. How had they managed to get the infected officer down here? Had anyone else come into contact with him? ‘You have to get rid of him, sir. Burn him, I suggest. It’s necessary to bludgeon the head first to incapacitate him, then burn what’s left to be sure the infection can’t be spread.’
‘It’s perfectly safe, Wilkins. We’ve had our best men dealing with him. There’s no way he can escape.’
‘Then what’s the point of keeping him in this pitiful state?’
‘To study. You’re a decent soldier, but you’re no scientist. Our chaps tell me they need to see one of these things close-up to work out what we’re dealing with. Mills fell into our lap at just the right moment.’
‘There is no right moment...’
‘I understand your concern, but there’s no way out. He’s bricked in, for goodness sake.’
‘And how did you keep him restrained while the brickwork was complete?’ Wilkins asked.
‘He was shackled to the wall.’
‘Well he’s not now,’ he observed as his dead colleague threw himself at the metal grille again.
‘No, there was an incident with his right hand, I believe. But he is completely trapped. He doesn’t have the strength to break through brick walls.’
‘What kind of incident?’
The colonel seemed reluctant. ‘He chewed through his own wrist to get free.’
‘Christ... And you expect me to believe he won’t get out? Have you stopped to consider the implications? Just by having him here you’ve introduced the germ to England. If he should get lose then we’re all done for...’
‘He won’t get out,’ Colonel Adams said, his tone increasingly short. ‘My people know what they’re doing here, Wilkins, and I’ll have nothing bad said of them. They’ll do what’s asked of them and all I expect of you is that you follow your orders, and those orders are to break into Polonezköy camp, find this bloody scientist, get him out of there and deliver him to us alive. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Glad to hear it. Now get yourself some food and some rest. You don’t have long.’
‘Sir.’
‘There’s a hell of a lot riding on this mission, Wilkins. Far more than you probably appreciate.’
14
IN THE GROUNDS OF POCKLINGTON HALL
MIDDAY
Despite his utter exhaustion, sleep hadn’t come easily to Wilkins. Nervousness kept him awake for much of the morning. That and the constant noise and activity in and around the manor house. He admitted defeat just before lunchtime. He emerged from the room where they’d left him in a makeshift (and bloody uncomfortable) cot, and left the building through a large glass door which opened out onto a raised courtyard area. The room he’d been resting in had originally been a ballroom, though he thought it had probably been a long time since there’d been any kind of jollities to be had here. Times past this grand house would have been alive with a different kind of activity every day: socialising and drinking, dancing and swinging, all without a damn care in the world. Wilkins leant against the stone balustrade and lit a cigarette, flicking the spent match into an ornamental fish pond below, wondering if there would ever be a return to such carefree, innocent times.
‘They told me you were sleeping,’ she said.
He froze when he heard her voice. Didn’t want to turn around in case he was dreaming or if it was a cruel trick his sleep-starved brain was playing on him.
But it wasn’t.
It was her.
He turned around and saw her watching him. She looked every inch as beautiful as he remembered. Even in her Wrens uniform and with little make-up and her hair unkempt she was stunning. He ran over and grabbed hold of her. The two of them embraced, neither wanting to ever let go of the other. Their lips met with unbridled passion.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispered when they finally parted.
‘And I missed you too, Robert. It’s such a relief to see you again.’
They kissed again, but this time Jocelyn pulled away slightly. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘I heard a nasty rumour that you’re not staying for long. Tell me it’s not true.’
‘I’m sorry, my love. I have to go.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
‘That’s what I’d heard, but I’d told myself I wasn’t going to believe it until I’d heard it from you directly.’
‘If I had any choice...’
‘If any of us had any choice...’
‘If I could—’
‘—then I know you’d stay. Are things really as bad as they’re saying, Robert?’
He turned away, not wanting her to see the hopelessness in his eyes. ‘Worse,’ he admitted.
‘We’re hearing all kinds of things, my love. Fantastic things. Horrific things.’
‘All true. In fact, I’ll wager you haven’t heard the half of it. And that’s why I have to go back.’
‘But why you? There are plenty of other men.’
‘Regrettably not. It seems I’ve acquired some kind of expertise in the colonel’s eyes. There really is no choice.’
‘It’s so damn unfair.’
‘I know, Jocelyn, but...’
‘What?’
‘But I fear if I don’t do this, I might not have a home to come back to before long. There’s an evil army fighting its way through mainland Europe, borne of the Third Reich, but having no place on Earth.’
‘I want to ask you more, but I fear I wouldn’t want to hear what you would tell me.’
‘This is a foe which has an immeasurable advantage on the battlefield, an enemy which adds to its number with every fresh kill. And it’s not just soldiers... ordinary people caught up in battle through sheer bad luck and geography... the innocents who...’
He stopped speaking. Tears were running freely down Jocelyn’s cheeks.
‘Stop, Robert... please. No more. I can’t bear the thought of you going back into battle against these creatures. I’m terrified that next time you won’t return.’
‘Nothing and no one will stop me getting back to you, Jocelyn. It’s the thought of us being together which will keep me alive and keep me fighting. I’ll come home, my love, I promise.’
15
THE BRIEFING ROOM
TWENTY-ONE HUNDRED HOURS
The plan sounded simple. But then again, thought Wilkins, they usually did. Sitting here in the comfort and relative safety of the manor house, studying blurred photographs and hand-drawn maps, listening to intelligence reports and weather forecasts, the task at hand sounded decidedly less daunting than it should have.
The men gathered in the room were a mix of Brits and Yanks. Wilkins looked around, feeling like the odd one out as they all seemed to know each other. This mission had evidently been in planning for some time, just awaiting confirmation that the scientist was still at Polonezköy and additional intelligence from himself and others. The Yanks were from the 84th Airborne, and had been here at the manor house for the best part of a week, undergoing training alongside a small British task force. Captain Hunter was the American lead. He’d an accent so thick it had taken Wilkins a while to acclimatise to it. Even now he frequently misheard words. Not such a big deal had they just been enjoying a conversation in the pub on a Saturday afternoon, but to misconstrue an order in combat could be fatal. The stakes were far higher where they were going.
Colonel Adams ran through specifics of the mission, using a long stick to point out salient information on a blackboard mounted on the wall at the far end of the room. The colonel banged and scraped the stick, and the noise cut right through Wilkins. Was it just nerves, he wondered? He didn’t feel himself at all. If he could have left the room without retribution and never returned, he thought he probably would. He did what he could to remain focused, but couldn’t help remembering that buried deep below where he was sitting was one of the undead. It was frightening to think that one drop of blood, one splash of spittle, one bite, one scratch, one dribble of mucus, might be enough to unleash the unstoppable contagion on his beloved homeland.
Captain Hunter’s men would provide cover to enable the Brits to gain access to the camp, find the scientist and extract him alive. His name was Doctor Egil Månsson, and they had been provided with the most recent photograph available. They all knew full well that being held in a concentration camp would inevitably have had dramatic effects on the doctor’s appearance. At best he’d no doubt be weak and malnourished. There was every chance he wouldn’t even be alive.
The task force was to be led by Lieutenant Charlie Henshaw, who had already wasted no time in letting Wilkins know who was in charge. Wilkins knew of Henshaw by reputation. Respected and loathed in equal measure, he got the job done and that was all that mattered tonight.
Sergeant Boris Steele was Henshaw’s number two. He struck Wilkins as a decent chap, willing to listen and take a step back when he needed to, but equally prepared to stand his ground. He seemed to offer a welcome counterpoint to Lieutenant Henshaw’s abrasiveness. There was no mistaking the high regard in which Steele held his closest comrades. Somewhat older than most of the men, he had a fatherly air about him.
Lance Corporals Harris, Barton and Jones were also along for the ride, and though Wilkins didn’t know any of them, they all seemed like decent fellows. Wilkins thought that Jones, an enthusiastic scouser, didn’t look old enough to be out alone this late, let alone to be parachuting deep into enemy territory. He was a diminutive lad who seemed to have trouble filling his own uniform.
‘The main thing you need to know about Polonezköy right now is that it’s been awful quiet over the last week or so,’ a bespectacled intelligence officer explained.
‘They stopped using it?’ one of the Americans asked. ‘Shut it down?’
‘We’re not sure. All we know is that movement around the camp has reduced to practically nothing.’
‘Think they’ve cleared out?’ another man asked.
The intelligence officer clearly had little in the way of useful intelligence to offer. ‘I’m afraid we don’t know. Even if the Germans have left the camp, there’s been no major activity. That would indicate the prisoner population is still being held there.’
‘Left to rot,’ the first American seethed. ‘That’d be right. Damn krauts.’
Colonel Adams took over and explained that the plan was to be dropped in a barren region a couple of miles south-west of Polonezköy. Captain Hunter’s men would hold position long enough to ensure the task force had reached the camp, then move several miles north to take – and hold – the airfield at Leginów. There they’d wait for the Brits to return with their precious cargo, then call in air support so they could get out and get home.
Perhaps Wilkins wouldn’t have felt like such an outsider if he’d been the first choice for the mission. But, as Colonel Adams had pointed out on more than one occasion with his customary lack of tact, the first choice officer was dead. As was the second choice. And the third. And the fourth was missing in action.
Shortly it was Wilkins’ turn to step up to the front of the room to brief those who hadn’t yet had the misfortune of facing the dead directly. He felt he needed to make them understand the magnitude of the threat which they had been tasked with trying to contain. The information he imparted was met with a curious mix of concern and incredulity. He thought they’d all grasp the seriousness of the situation soon enough. Indeed, the direness of his warnings was compounde
d with an update from the front: the US troops to the north and south of the German advance continued to struggle to hold back the undead masses. At the western tip of the bulge, where the British 6th Airborne and 53rd Infantry Division fought to contain the Nazis, the first contact with the ungodly creatures had been reported east of Namur.
The briefing was all but complete, and yet Colonel Adams didn’t dismiss the men. He had still more to say. He cleared his throat and looked around the room. ‘Gentlemen, please hear me out. You are all of you under the most extreme pressure imaginable, and I am well aware that I am sending you into one of the most – if not the most – dangerous places on the face of the Earth today, but I fear I must increase that pressure still further. Understand this, your mission must succeed. There is no room for failure. The undead scourge simply cannot be allowed to continue its progress unchecked. I feel I have a duty to tell you all that there is an alternative solution should your mission be a failure.’
Absolute silence. Not a movement. Not a murmur.
‘The Americans are developing a weapon of untold power. Whilst I do not have any specifics – and some of you yanks here in the room with us today might – I have it on good authority that this new bomb could change the direction of the war with a single blast. I hope to goodness that such an awful weapon is used sparingly in battle, but consider this: if we are unable to stop the progress of our new ungodly enemy, total annihilation of great swathes of mainland Europe may be our only alternative. This is no understatement. The weight of the entire world rests on your shoulders tonight, men. God speed to you, and God help us all.’
16
THE WESTERN FRONT
NEAR NAMUR
The British had continued to hold back the German advance, even reverse it for a time, but the battle was taking its toll. Sergeant Daniel Phillips was losing track of the days. He seemed to have been stuck in this damned spot forever. He and his men had taken over a derelict farmhouse just east of Namur, and from there they’d beaten back the advancing enemy again and again and again. Each time the Germans seemed to just keep coming. Phillips had, for a while, wondered if they’d been fighting those unstoppable undead monsters he continued to hear so much about. It was reassuring to see that when he shot a man these days, he still stayed down.
