by David Moody
All of the doubts and misgivings these British soldiers might have had, the unspoken suspicions that Wilkins was wrong or that he’d exaggerated the situation in Europe, were all undone in the space of several frantic minutes.
A gap in the oncoming crowd. They must have faced twenty or thirty between them now, though numbers were unclear in the dark. Wilkins dashed across to Harris and Jones to help put down two more frenzied attackers. ‘We need to get under cover,’ he gasped breathlessly. ‘Otherwise we’ll be fighting like this all night. That’s if we last that long. We’ve no idea how many of them there are.’
‘The huts,’ Steele shouted over the chaos, gesticulating wildly once he’d twisted the neck of a dead SS guard and put a blade through his eye.
‘But we don’t know what’s in there, Sarge,’ Jones said.
‘No, but we do know what’s out here,’ Wilkins immediately replied.
He ran towards the nearest of the shabby wooden buildings, shoulder charging more of the dead out of the way now rather than wasting time and effort trying to deal with them more comprehensively. The others followed as best they could, kicking and lashing out at the hellish creatures which swarmed around them in huge numbers, apparently without end.
Wilkins yanked at the door. The handle was stiff but, to his surprise, opened relatively easily. Jones piled inside after him, followed by Steele. ‘Where’s Barton?’ asked the sergeant, realising he was the last one who’d made it to cover, immediately concerned for the men. ‘And Harris and the lieutenant? Where the hell are they?’
He had a Sten gun slung across his back. He swung it around and held it ready.
‘Think about the bloody noise, man,’ Wilkins said, doing his best to dissuade him from firing. He knew his words would inevitably have little effect.
‘Bit late for that now, Lieutenant,’ Steele said, and he kicked the door open again and charged back outside. Wilkins tried to stop him, but he was already running headlong into the still advancing crowd, firing wildly and filling the air with noise. It was clear that he was trying to create a distraction so that his colleagues would stand a chance of surviving. And it seemed to be working too, because those members of the army of the dead that Wilkins could see – prisoners and Nazis alike – were staggering further away from the hut now and following Steele into the impenetrable darkness elsewhere.
‘Help me!’
The remaining Brits heard Harris’ distinctive voice calling. Jones illuminated him with his torch and saw he was standing over the injured Lieutenant Henshaw, doing everything he could to keep great swathes of venomous corpses at bay. He was swinging a shovel he’d happened upon from somewhere. The head of the spade made contact with the skull of one of the dead, filling the air with a sonorous clang and sending the pitiful creature spiralling away.
Wilkins punched his blade hard into the face of one of the undead. He moved forward, but was then forced to rock back on his toes to avoid being caught with the edge of the scything shovel blade. ‘Steady on, Harris,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s me, Wilkins.’
No time for pleasantries. ‘Help the lieutenant,’ Harris yelled. ‘Get him under cover. He’s hurt.’
Barton appeared from nowhere and helped Wilkins pick the fallen officer up off the ground. The two of them half-carried, half-dragged him back to the hut. Harris followed, still wildly swinging the shovel as he backed towards the others, cutting down more relentless bodies with every vicious swipe. The moment they were all inside Barton snatched the shovel from him and used it to wedge the door shut.
‘That should hold the buggers back for a while,’ he said. He could see shapeless figures crowding on the other side of the windows. He couldn’t make out any level of detail, but just knowing they were there was terrifying enough.
‘What about the sarge?’ Jones asked. He could still hear the Sten gun being fired repeatedly in the distance.
‘Sergeant Steele will find his way back here soon enough,’ Barton said. ‘I hope,’ he added under his breath.
The group’s full attention shifted to the wounded officer writhing in pain at their feet. Wilkins crouched down next to him, checking his wounds. Henshaw’s right arm was badly broken, that much was clear, and in the little he could see from the limited light of Jones’ torch, his skin had already developed an unhealthy pallor.
‘What do we do?’ Jones asked. He sounded panicked, like a child.
‘The first thing we do, Lance Corporal, is shut up,’ Wilkins told him in no uncertain terms. ‘Now get some more light down here, and someone find something I can use as a splint.’
Barton happened across a length of wooden baton. He propped it against the wall and snapped it in half with three hard stomps of his boot. Harris found two Feuerhand Hurricane lamps which he managed to get lit reasonably quickly, filling the hut with light.
‘Where’s the blood coming from?’ asked Harris, and he moved closer with one of the lanterns. Blood was pooling behind the officer’s back, spilling out across the wooden floor like a slick.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Wilkins, and he carefully rolled Henshaw towards him to look at his back. Henshaw’s smock and other clothing had been torn: slashed during the frenzied attack. With his heart in his mouth and fearing the worst, Wilkins lifted away several layers of blood-soaked material until Henshaw’s bare skin was exposed. He looked like he’d been clawed by a bear.
‘And here, sir,’ Jones said, gingerly rolling up his commanding officer’s crimson stained trouser leg. ‘Look.’
In the glare of the kerosene lamp, Wilkins saw an unmistakable semi-circular mark. He’d been bitten. He stepped back from the fallen officer with a heavy heart. ‘He’s not going to make it,’ he said.
‘It’s just a broken bone and a few scratches,’ Jones protested. ‘He’ll be all right. We’ll leave him here and—’
‘You don’t understand, Jones, he’s infected. It’s too much of a risk to leave him here like this. We have to deal with him in the same way we deal with those hideous things out there.’
‘He’s not dead.’
‘He’s as good as.’
Wilkins held his clasp knife ready, but Harris blocked the way. ‘Lay one finger on Lieutenant Henshaw and you’ll have me to answer to.’
‘Listen to me, if the lieutenant dies, he’ll come back. And your uniforms and allegiances and past histories will count for nothing. He’ll attack and—’
‘No, with all due respect, sir, you listen to me,’ Harris interrupted. ‘The lieutenant has seen me safely through many a scrape. I’m not going to turn my back on him now when he needs me most.’
Wilkins was ready to protest, but he knew it would do no good. He understood completely, but that didn’t make the situation any easier to deal with. He reluctantly stepped away from Henshaw, but kept his clasp knife gripped tight in his hand.
The group’s hasty entrance and subsequent bickering had aroused plenty of attention from the undead hordes outside, and whilst Steele had been able to draw many of them away, there were still a considerable number gathered around the front of the hut. ‘We’re blocked in,’ Barton whispered. He’d been looking out through a small window. ‘There’s loads of them out there. We either fight our way out, or we wait.’
‘We can’t wait,’ Wilkins reminded him. ‘There’s no time. If we’re not at the rendezvous point by dawn, I fear we’ll be spending the rest of our days here in Polonezköy.’
‘Here,’ Jones hissed from the other side of the shack. ‘There’s another door.’
He hesitated before opening it, fearing what he might find on the other side and picturing swarms more reanimated guards and prisoners emerging from the shadows and rushing towards him.
It was empty.
The connecting room was much larger than the first, and it was almost completely bare. Its purpose was immediately apparent. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, even stronger here than in the rest of this damned place. The remaining men left Henshaw and followed Jones in
side. It was easy for each of them to stand here and picture it packed to the rafters with confused and frightened prisoners of war, brought to Polonezköy to be exterminated in their thousands.
With Henshaw wounded, Wilkins assumed command. He knew this would be a test of his diplomatic as well as his military skills. He stood with the others in the ante-room and cleared his throat to speak. ‘Let’s not forget why we are here, gentlemen. This camp, and other camps like it, are places of unspeakable horror where despicable acts are carried out with alarming regularity. The Nazis who operated this facility have shown no mercy to these innocent people, and now we shall show no mercy to them. If, in the hours ahead, you ever have cause to doubt what we are doing and why we are doing it, remember this room. Remember the awful feeling in your gut which I know you all have right now, just as I do. Remember the sense of dread that sits in your belly like vomit because you know you are in the presence of true evil.’
‘Well said, sir,’ Barton mumbled.
‘Keep your heads, men, and remember what’s at stake. We’d already been told that Polonezköy had fallen largely silent, and now we know why. What we have here is a microcosm – a scaled-down version of what will inevitably happen to the entire world if we don’t do the job we’ve been sent here to do. Do you all understand?’
Even though their collective responses were low and subdued, it was clear that they did.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Jones asked.
‘Given the importance to the Reich of what was developed here, I’m convinced that Doctor Månsson’s laboratory must be somewhere in the castle. Given the lack of human resistance we’ve encountered since arriving here, I suspect the Doctor himself has either been incarcerated or abandoned or both. I don’t know what we’ll find in there, but the castle and its keep is where we need to start our search. Once we have the doctor or, failing that, his research, we simply have to get out of this hellish place and make our way to the rendezvous site.’
‘You make it sound so simple,’ Barton said, barely managing to contain his sarcasm. Wilkins was not impressed.
‘Mr Barton, I am under absolutely no illusions, and nor should you be. I knew this mission would be nigh on impossible from the outset, and nothing I’ve seen so far has convinced me otherwise. However, as we all know, the importance of what we’re doing here cannot be overstated. Without us, the entire civilised world is as good as lost forever. The dead will inherit the Earth. Our families, friends and other loved ones will be slaughtered by the dead and will almost inevitably join their ranks. And if we are unsuccessful, we too face the same foul fate. We simply cannot afford to fail. The success of the mission must come first, no matter what the cost.’
As Wilkins spoke and the others listened, transfixed and terrified in equal measure, Lieutenant Henshaw gave out his last breath and died. Lying on the floor in the adjacent room, he became completely still.
‘I suggest we find an alternative way out of this building,’ Wilkins continued. ‘If we’re clever about this, we might be able to get out without those damn buggers on the other side of the door knowing what we’re up to. With any luck they’ll remain focused on this building in the belief that we’re still inside.’
‘Do we have any idea about the layout of the castle?’ Harris asked.
‘Barely anything,’ Barton said.
‘What’s where don’t matter,’ Jones added. ‘We just keep searching ’til we find what we want.’
‘Exactly,’ Wilkins said. ‘We just need to—’
He was silenced by a godawful clattering from the room next door. It had been less than a minute, but the deadly germ already coursing through the late Lieutenant Henshaw’s bloodstream had already caused him to reanimate. In his infected stupor he’d tried to support himself on his badly broken arm and had fallen heavily against a wall, riling the corpses outside still further.
Harris lifted his lamp and illuminated the deceased officer’s death mask. It was a terrifying sight; so completely unnatural. So familiar, yet so unfamiliar at the same time. Dead Henshaw picked himself up again and staggered towards the light, his mouth hanging open, ready to bite and spread the deadly infection he carried. Harris froze.
Wilkins grabbed Henshaw by the scruff of the neck and spun him around, pushing him back against the wall. Yet more excitement rippled through the ranks of the foul crowd amassed outside at the noise. He raised his knife and did what he had to do. Henshaw twitched and jerked for a moment on the end of his blade, then dropped heavily to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly severed.
Wilkins turned to look at the others, who gazed back at him with conflicting emotions. He’d saved their lives, but he’d also just hacked down the commanding officer who’d led them into and safely out of many a nightmarish scrape over the months they’d been under his charge. Wilkins completely appreciated the enormity of what he’d just done.
‘We have no choice in this, men. As I said, failure is not an option. And if I or indeed any one of us should become infected like the poor lieutenant, then I expect each of you to fight to be the one who ends the poor bugger’s infernal existence. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
21
AT THE AIRFIELD
There’d been an uncomfortable delay whilst they’d waited for the inevitable attack, but within minutes the dead had begun to slowly come at them from all directions at once, crawling out of the forest with a nonchalant lack of speed but unquestionable intent.
The company medic was still trying to do what he could for Private Willard; badly burned, shaking furiously with shock, not long for this world. They’d moved him to the hangar building while the rest of the men formed a defensive line around the top of the airfield. ‘This ain’t good,’ Captain Hunter said to Sergeant Hennessy.
‘We can hold them back, sir,’ Hennessy was quick to reply. He was spoiling for a fight, desperate to get his teeth into these damn creatures.
‘I’ve no doubt, Sergeant, but that’s only half the battle. We’re light on supplies and they’ve got us backed into a corner. It’s not just about holding them back, we’ve got to beat them back too so the airfield’s clear for pick-up. We don’t know how many of them are out there, and I don’t need to remind you, if we don’t do what we’ve been sent here to do, we ain’t going home in the morning, understand?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Tell your men to hit ’em hard in the head. Only use bullets if they have to. Keep the noise down and keep an eye on our ammo.’
‘Yessir,’ he said again, before saluting and returning to the fray.
Between fifteen and twenty of them were heading straight up the airstrip in an unruly pack. Some of the troops had armed themselves with things they’d scavenged from the airfield to use as bludgeons. Anyone watching would have thought they’d stumbled upon a moonlit gang-fight, a street-corner brawl. The prospect of fighting one-on-one like this (actually more like one-on-many) appealed to some of the men. Better to be bare-knuckle scrapping than sitting waiting like they had been.
And so it began.
Brutal and relentless.
Sergeant Hennessy held back at first, but the adrenalin and fear kicked in and before long he was running at the creatures that shambled towards them. He had a length of metal pipe in his hand that he’d taken from the ruin of the booby-trapped building, and he took great pleasure in using it. He swung it like a sword, and damn near removed the head of the nearest cadaver. ‘Take them out,’ he ordered his men. ‘Take them all out. Leave nothing standing.’
22
INSIDE POLONEZKÖY
FOUR HOURS UNTIL RENDEZVOUS
They used kerosene from one of the lamps and torched the hut they’d been sheltering in, at the same time cremating the body of Lieutenant Henshaw. They took his weapons and kit, and Wilkins collected his identity tags and papers and a photograph and letter from his sweetheart which he found in the dead man’s inside pocket. He made a silent promise to
himself that when all this was said and done, he’d seek the woman out and tell her what a key role her lost love had played in saving the world. Hollow words, he knew, but he hoped they’d help ease the pain on some level.
The flames from the hut had the desired effect. As the British soldiers snuck out through the rear of the building, the incandescent bloom acted like a call to the faithful, drawing out vast swathes of undead creatures from every corner of the camp. They swarmed like ants over picnic food, competing with each other to get closer to the fire, oblivious to the devastating effect the flames had on both living and dead flesh alike. Jones watched with disbelief from a gap between two other buildings as several of the damn things continued to move, still walking even as their bodies burned. Prisoner and guard alike, all the former barriers of race and rank had been erased by this despicable condition. Nazi, Jew, man, woman, adult, child, captor, captive... now they were all just the dead.
This next group of buildings where the four soldiers now found themselves were, thankfully, far more innocuous than the last. By peering in through the dust and grime covered windows, Barton saw that these large, warehouse-like places appeared to be some kind of factory. Although much was hidden by the darkness, the outline of row after row after row of workbenches stretched back into the gloom. Their purpose appeared almost industrial by design. ‘Munitions,’ Wilkins told him. ‘Although my sources suggested a change of design had been mooted for the weapons made here.’
